


Shot in The Dark

by chainsmokingnun, Death_Herself



Series: The Dollar Decides How Far You Go [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Birthday Cake, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Childhood Trauma, Crossdressing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic Violence, Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Execution, Explosions, F/M, Feminine Peter, Feminization, Forbidden Love, Frank Castle/Vanessa Carlysle is a Ship We Didn't Know We Needed, Gang Violence, Guns, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, I swear this belongs in the marvel tag, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Minor Peter Parker/Wilson Fisk, Minor Shiklah/Wade Wilson, Minor Wade Wilson/Nathan Summers, Mutilation, Open Relationships, References to Drugs, Russian Mafia, Schizophrenia, Semi-Scarred Wade, Sex of All Varieties, Soap Opera Style Relationships, Sugar Daddy, This is Basically a Novel, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Yakuza, just saying, the people in this story are all in it for themselves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2018-10-18 20:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10624686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsmokingnun/pseuds/chainsmokingnun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_Herself/pseuds/Death_Herself
Summary: War, sex, money. You don't get to be the rising star of New York's seedy underbelly without making some enemies. Wade's been working to amass his Deadpool Corps'. reputation for far too long to be afraid of anyone. But he'll gladly take your bitch.Peter 'BabyDoll' Parker has never been without. His pretty face, loyalty, and 'skill set' has made him the sugar baby of one of New York's most notorious gang leaders. These two men meet, and all hell breaks loose.





	1. Honey, I Wanna Break You

Kingpin is what he’s called in the mob community. This guy is your stereotypical mob boss, and douchebag. Step one toe onto his "territory" and he loses his shit.  
  
Admittedly, the leader of the Deadpool Corps, Wade Wilson, didn’t step just one toe over the line. More like, his entire militia.

Still, did that give him a reason to be so brash?   
  
Besides, Wade is the kind of guy who doesn’t like the term territory. It's far too possessive, too alluring. If he sees something he wants, he goes for it.   
  
Bosses? Kingpins? Meaningless titles.   
  
He doesn’t have to call himself the boss for his men to know he’s the head fucking honcho.   
  
This guy, Kingpin, aka Wilson Fisk? He wants every single human to know he owns them.   
  
Which is exactly why Wade found himself staring at the metallic back entrance of the club that Fisk owns to attend some sort of meeting.   
  
He smooths back his blonde hair after looking down at his watch. If Fisk wanted him to arrive at seven, he was going to arrive at seven fifteen.   
  
In his short amount of time as the leader and creator of the Deadpool Corps, he’s earned quite the reputation of being uncontrollable, violent, and disrespectful towards other mob leaders. It’s brought a lot of death threats and attempted murders on himself. Earning him plenty of scars and a huge target on his back.   
  
He’s never resented the scars he’s earned from both his military days and current mob life. They weren't all consuming, but there were enough to label himself _scarred._ And the healed slit of his throat is his favorite.   
  
A big smiling scar. A warning. He can't be fucked off that easily.   
  
He exhales and looks around before knocking, being let in quickly and shown to the private viewing area where Fisk sits, already waiting for him.   
  
He nods for Wade to take a seat. Wade sits, watching the cute young blonde thing on stage currently, cute and young but not his type.

He has pretty high standards for strippers and who he sleeps with for personal gain. Prefer the men sassy and in no way going to take his shit. The women to be as manipulative and controlling as he is. Tall order, but he likes the challenge.  
  
Fisk and Wilson make eye contact, and the latter groans internally. This dude is just wrong on every level. Bald, cold, and big enough to not go down easy. ~ _And not hot at all! But whatever. Besides the point._   
  
The younger of the two flashes his winning smile, “ So. You called me here for _what_ exactly, your majesty?”   
  
"Don't act like this is some surprise, Mr. Wilson. You've entered a place you know you shouldn't be. I want you out of Hell's Kitchen. Preferably, I want you out of New York." Fisk’s features don’t change in the slightest.   
  
As Fisk entertains the idea of snapping his enemies neck, he knows his secret weapon and prized possession is in the back dressing room preparing to come on stage.   


The announcer cries out as the sound fades, “Introducing, Baby Doll.”

-

  
Peter pulls his red strappy heels on. At this point, he can glide in them. It’s not hard. Practice and natural grace go a long way.   
  
Johnny Storm steps off stage to the back and through all the glitter and makeup, the slender blonde smiles at his feminine friend, "Your daddy's here, dollface."   
  
The younger man wished his friend weren't so bitter. Johnny is the most masculine one here. Like a rooster in a hen house. He used to protect all of the other dancers. But old romance is a bitch.   
  
In the mirror, Peter mushes his lips together to make sure lipstick has been liberally coated on each.   
  
"Break a leg."   
  
“Fuck you, too”.   
  
The music changes after he is announced. A modern song choice that was most certainly not his decision, the lyrics fade but the beat is strong.   
  
Wilson's brought along a 'friend' tonight.  He can't look anything less than stunning. If this warning to the disrespectful mobster doesn't work, Peter might just be the last thing this man sees.   


He twists around the glinting pole like it's his lover. Slowly wrapping and moving his body around it like his livelihood depends on it.

  
His shirt is off. Skirt slides down his legs onto the stage floor. He pulls up against the metal, legs crossed giving the audience a flattering view of his ass.   
  
And that's when he sees him. Wandering blue eyes locked onto Peter’s form. The dancer smiles.

-

  
Wade nearly chokes on the drink that he didn't actually take a sip from. But he doesn’t falter or show weakness to the big bad bossman.   
  
He’s shocked though. This has to be a record. He doesn’t usually feel the flutter of absolute desire this quickly.

Every move he made settled into Wade’s brain as an image of darkened perfection.

Red heels dripped blood from his ankles, over his small feet, and onto the reflective stage. A glint of metal in the dancer’s hand hitting his eyes like the blade of a knife. Blood soaked lips formed a smile that was convincing of affection but his eyes were dark and all seeing.

Wanting nothing more than those eyes to see him, wanted them to pierce him and peel back his skin while Wade returned the favor.

Nothing had ever looked so high strung and in need of breaking in all of his life. ‘BabyDoll’ made his skin prickle with a newfound need to break something beautiful, to own something beautiful. Something as beautiful as the gory picture his mind was painting of this man.

But the man on stage is too beautiful to not already be owned.   
  
His smile broadens as he looks away from the beautiful thing on stage and back to Fisk. “But all my pets live here. You can't expect me to not feed my pets. And that's all I've been doing when I wander through here.”   
  
He can’t help but look back over to the stage. ~ _God damn he’s flexible._     
  
Every move is calculated, and Wade has a horrible men in makeup fetish. This time he refuses to look back to Fisk. Completely transfixed on the lithe dancer.  “Unless... this is a real threat and not a friendly warning.”   
  
He starts to laugh “‘Because daddy doesn't take _kindly_ to threats, bigman.”   
  
If he were truly insane, his gun would already be drawn and in this guy’s face. He’s just sane enough thankfully. Even as his gun starts to heat up his skin where it rests on his hip, wanting to  be used. Longing to see some gory action instead of this small talk.   
  
He’s starting to become restless, wanting to quench this overwhelming lust for blood and leave.   
  
"I always give a nice option, Wade. I'm a very nice man. Just ask my baby doll." Fisk nods to Peter on stage and the younger man waves like the good pet he is.

-  
  
Thoughts and memories are a blur in the bass and smoke. He might've loved Fisk eons ago. Now this is strictly a business arrangement. He sleeps with him, fucks who he tells him to, looks pretty for him, and is paid for it. Love means nothing anymore.   
  
It's a survival tactic, this coldness.   
  
He makes sure to hold onto Wade’s attention as he moves. Show off a little and Fisk nods again like he's pleased.

The music fades out way too soon for Wade's liking. Babydoll retreats backstage.   
  
"If you leave with no ill will, I won't come after you. If you refuse to, you'll have a war on your hands. One you won't win."

Lace, mesh, pearls. Peter walks with an air of entitlement into the private viewing box.  
  
As Kingpin's property, he has to look nice, not like a ratty whore on the street. He sits on Fisk’s lap, crossing his legs.   
  
Wade’s eyes are on him again, burning holes in his skin. Peter moves his skirt down a little as he speaks to Fisk. “Hi daddy. Did you enjoy the show?”   
  
He lifts the dancer’s chin in an almost loving way, "Yes baby doll, you did wonderfully."   
  
Fisk looks at Wade with hard eyes. "This is Wade Wilson. You've heard of him."   
  
~ _Helloooo, Mr. Wilson. Gorgeous blue eyes, cute dimples. Sexy scars...and damn those muscle. Pin me down and fuck me_   
  
Peter reaches out his hand “Very nice to meet you.”   
  
Instead of shaking it, Wade turns it over and kisses it. Peter stares owlishly, cheeks pink.

The dancer's skin was smooth. He smelled like a sugar baby. Just as uppity as ‘daddy.’   
  
~ _Ohhh, baby I can be a daddy you'll never forget._   
  
One half of Wade’s lips curl, revealing a mischievous smirk. He releases the soft hand and takes in his clothing. Women's clothes, beautiful and sexy much like the man wearing them. God damn.   
  
He is forced to take his eyes off the perfect specimen and return them to Fisk. “Where were we? Oh, right...”   
  
He gets up and leans over the table to be nose to nose with Fisk. Said man looks pissed and all his lackey's have shifted, guns drawn. Each click of a hammer sent  Wade’s ego through the roof.   
  
“I'm just some guy looking for a good time. Hell's Kitchen throws some mean parties.” He rubs his nose against the bald man’s.

Wade’s voice drops, “I have no ill will. In fact, I wouldn't mind a little gal pal action with you. But no one tells me what to do.”  
  
His eyes darken. Fisk can't see it but Peter can. Wade’s hand shifts and rests on his gun.   
  
It's not much for Wade tower over Peter, but he shoves the imposing man just enough to put space between him and his daddy. He stands up, 5'7 in heels and a white lace dress.   
  
His hand runs up Wade’s chest. "I’m sorry Mr. Wilson, no one gets that close to daddy but me."   
  
Wade straightens up and looks down at the man. Seven inches is quite a height difference when threatening someone. He would love for the dancer to try and take him on. He knows he isn’t fragile. Petite and pretty sure, but not puny.   
  
His eyes pour over the dolled up face. He holds a smile on his lips before looking back to the bald man sitting down. “You have good taste, Fisk. I do enjoy a well-trained piece of arm candy.”   
  
He looks back down at the dancer and winks like the spiteful ass he is, before stepping away and spouting over his shoulder, “This meeting went well.”   
  
Wade took his leave while rather annoyed, apart from getting to see the pretty little thing at work. That was far from annoying. That was a trigger for a mission. He’s hell-bent on pissing the Kingpin off now.   
  
~ _I'm a little surprised they let me leave so easily._   
  
But he’s almost entirely certain it's stirred Fisk’s fury of "war" on him and his men. There's not a lot of bodies making up the Deadpool Corps. But there doesn't need to be. They are more trained than Fisk’s lackeys combined.   
  
Wade is confident in his success. He’s not some money grubbing idiot with tons of followers. He’s just looking for fun and gore.   
-

It’s not that Wade hated going home. It was just...awkward nowadays. Vanessa stood in the dining room, pushing down the lid to one of her suitcases.

“How was the meeting?”

“Something.”

Her eyebrow raised, “Something?”

“Well, you already know it was a massive failure.”

A few pink thongs slip out of the case. She groans as she picks them up, “Of course. Put you in a room with anyone and you’ll make a mess of things. It’s just your nature.”

Her ring was off. Wade let out a small noise. He looked at his hand. At the gold band around his finger. “Only highlight was the cute dancer.”

“Oh God,” She walked over, drops to her knees in front of him, “Should I be nervous?”

Pretty red manicured fingers ran up his thighs. His hand ran through her hair, “You might. He was gorgeous.”

“Think about how it would look if you died because of a stripper.” She unzipped his pants, released his cock.

They have an understanding. She was still his wife. Still his property. His confidant. Even if she was spending every other night at another man’s house.

Her red stained lips smoothed over his cock, and he forgot all about the mess he’d made.

*

"So what was it this time? Did he look at you funny? Not choke on your barrel just right? Have a bigger dick than you?" Bob’s tone is dripping with sarcasm and a coldness Wade can’t place while his arms fold over his chest.  
  
“His stripper pet was feisty.” Wade says with an eyebrow cocked.   
  
"Goddamnit. Not over a woman again?"   
  
“Oh no. Not a woman. This little number was a prettied up man that I'm going to fuck right under Fisks nose.” The man stares off with a mystified look in his eye as Bob groans out,   
  
"Your revenge style is _the_ worst. Why not just kidnap and kill the stripper?"   
  
A hum of consideration, “Hm. I suppose I could. Fisk would pay well to have his biggest moneymaker returned....”   
  
"Wade… Brother. This is absurd. This guy is the face and mind behind the largest crime organization in New York and you just pissed him the hell off." Even though what he was saying was true, Wade couldn’t help but furrow his brow. Bob was good at getting him worked up.   
  
“Which is why we need to be ready. We knock him off the top, and we can take his place. Then guess what?”   
  
"Oh god. What?"   
  
“I'll be everyone's daddy.” Wade wiggles his eyebrows as his small but still well-built friend groaned again. "You love me Bob. You love me.”   
  
\-   
  
Nothing reeking of war comes to the Deadpool Corps right away and Wade grows very impatient.   
  
Bob is determined to stick with Wade, claiming to not trust the man’s big mouth. Fair, Wade thought as they ventured into Hell's Kitchen a week later to put a very ill-conceived plan named "fuck your enemy's bitch" into action.   
  
They are noticed at the club but not by anyone high enough to know they are **the enemy** . It shouldn’t boost Wade’s ego, but it most certainly does. Luck is almost always on his side.   
  
Sticking to the more secluded private viewing rooms, so Wade can be stealthy and Bob be the face of their presence tonight.   
  
A large amount of doubt screams at Wade. There’s no way Fisk would let his pride and joy be here without him. But it's worth a shot.   
  
Bob wants to drink, and since he’s paying for the night, Wade obliges. Two drinks in, he sees the little thing he came here for. Down by the backstage door talking to the cute and young thing that wasn’t his type.   
  
"-thought daddy wanted you home tonight."   
  
“What's the point of having a jewel, Johnny, if you can't show it off?” Peter knew that to be true. Wilson loves showing off his body. It makes him feel powerful. The platform heels on Peter’s pedicured feet would snap the ankles of another inexperienced woman.   
  
He can’t help but enjoy the small amount of freedom he feels while here by himself. Taking his time to perfect his makeup and outfit for his show, which really isn’t too long. He’s up on stage taking hold of the pole only moments after coming into work.   
  
Swaying his hips to the beat of the music and letting the exhilaration of purely existing to entertain fill his mind. He’s used to feeling eyes on him, but there’s a pair on him tonight that burn hotter than any other’s here. Familiar blue eyes.   
  
So the insane threat to his daddy came back? What ends does he think he'll meet?   
  
He throws his leg over the pole, arches his back while the tips of his heels barely touch the stage. Maybe he’s dancing for Wade. Or the way those eyes burn through him like he’s something that belongs on a pedestal.   
  
It puts a fire in Peter’s stomach he hasn't had before.   
  
All of his calculated moves drip sex. Advertising both his flexibility and assets.   
  
The muscles stretched over his arms flexing as he pulls himself up a few feet before lifting his heels up and settling the pole between his thighs. He leans his head back slowly and fluidly leans his whole back backwards releasing his hands from the metal between his legs.   
  
Pulling himself back up slowly and gently spinning his way back down. Once his heels graced the floor again he encircled the pole in his hands, lifting himself up slowly several times before diving back into his routine.     
  
By the end of the show the stage is littered with small bills but he leaves them and heads back into the changing room. He barely makes it to his vanity before one of the other dancers pulls him aside and says he’s needed in a private room.

That he’s been paid for in advance. Peter smiles softly. There’s only one man stupid enough to do that.  
  
He walks into the room Wade is set up in, sits right on his lap, and gives the million dollar smile he’s trained to give. “You're gonna die, you know that right?”   
  
Wade watches Bob scramble up out of his lounge seat across from him and leave through the floor to ceiling curtains separating the private room from the dark hallway. Like a good boy, he goes to stand guard.   
  
The mobster looks up into the big amber eyes and perks his eyebrow. A smile tugging at his lips, “I'm already dead, sweetie. But you... no. You're surviving _and_ thriving.”   
  
He looks the smaller limber body over. The hunger is obvious. The need for the danger is just as obvious. Wade could be mean and force the man to do what he wanted. But he won't. He wants the dancer to _need_ this.   
  
Peter looks down at the rugged older man. Brushing his nose against the man’s and letting a hot breath fan over his lips. “What are you hoping to get out of this, Wade? A way to humiliate Fisk?”   
  
He leans in and whispers against Wade’s ear. “Or does it turn you on to know that I’m taken? Watching your cum drip from another man's bitch. You'd like that wouldn't you?”   
  
The sound of his shoes hitting the floor filled the pause. He situated himself on Wade’s lap further. He has the feeling he will be here awhile. “But you should know, he has a space in his trophy case, specifically for your head.”   
  
Wade’s fingers run up the smooth thighs resting on each side of his own, digging his nails in and run them back down. “Yes, yes, hell yes, and goddamn I hope so. It's nice to be recognized for all the hard work I put into pissing one guy off.”   
  
His hands find their way to Peter’s hips as he spreads his legs. The new angle makes the silk covered ass press down on Wade’s clothed erection. A sample of exactly what he’ll be dealing with. “What were _you_ hoping to get out of this by actually meeting me, baby?”   
  
“I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you weren't the least bit worth the trouble.” Peter begins to move his hips, grinding on Wade’s cock. A soft moan escapes his lips. “And it looks like you are _more_ than worth it. You're the first rival he hasn't shot on sight. You're the first one to challenge him the way you did. And maybe I have a deathwish. Who knows?”   
  
Lean and defined arms wrap around Wade’s neck, fingers running through the short blonde hair on the sides of his head. Peter leans in and whispers against his lips. “Show me if you're worth it.”   
  
~ _Sassy and challenging._

  
Wade lets out a low huff at the challenge, thinking of how he has not touched or met anyone hotter than this little thing, pressing up as Peter grinds down. His hands move to the pert ass, one cheek in each hand. He smiles against the other's lips “God. That mouth on you. This will be more than worth it.”   
  
He gives Peter a quick hard kiss before he moves his mouth to the long slender neck. Even his sweat tastes like perfection.   
  
Wade’s hand moves up under the article of clothing separating them, silk panties. God damnit.  His finger brushes against his hole while he nips at his neck.   
  
Wade hopes to god he won’t be the first to have taken Peter today. Hoping it's only been Fisk. Cause that would turn him the hell on, drive him absolutely insane.   
  
The idea makes his body react, pushing his finger in the remaining slickness. It's not hard to slide in and the resistance is moderate. He knows this kid has been tasted often, and he intends to do it better. He push two fingers in and nips at his collarbone.   
  
The mobster is one of those reckless men. He was offered the delectable idea of coming inside the enemy's bitch. An offer he is more than willing to accept.   
  
Peter’s thoughts were a little fuzzy. This stranger, enemy of his daddy, was... new. Fisk is impressive in his own right but god this man’s fingers are doing what Fisk’s cock can’t. And he is just trying to open him up. He pulls at the longer hair on top of Wade’s head.  “Oh honey, you don't waste time do you?”   
  
He refuses to look undignified, especially in front of this mobster. But he’s starting to suspect that Wade just might break him. The type of man who would wreck, destroy, make him cry and expect his makeup to be perfect afterward.   
  
Moving against the man’s fingers, and feeling his own cock throb against his panties pulls out a whine from his throat. “You’ve done this before. You don't look the type...”   
  
Wade whispers against the neck he’s sucking on. “Don't look the type for what exactly?”   
  
Pushing his fingers in all the way and rubbing at the sensitive spot inside of the smaller man. Listening to his breaths grow heavy ever so slightly. Wade realizes this beautiful creature is really going to make him work to pleasure them both.   
  
He loves challenges. A third finger slips in nearly as easily as the two, but his muscles are constricting around them. This prized pet is so trained. His body is begging for so much more.   
  
Wade’s free hand pushes down on his lower back down so Peter is angled to feel and take more. Every time the dancer moves, trying to pleasure himself more than what Wade was doing, his cock ached to just hurry up and bend this little thing over.   
  
Peter’s eyes caught the shimmer of a pretty gold band in the low light. Wilson has the same one on the same finger. He wonder if Wade’s knows the way Fisk’s does.   
  
Fisk spends more time with Peter, inside him, than his own wife. Mob rules. He does what he has to and Peter knows he doesn't count as a threat. No babies or will write in.   
  
His wife is safe. Doesn't mean it doesn't bother her.   
  
At least the dancer knows what he is, knows his place. Some aren't so lucky. They get greedy.   
  
Precum dribbles out onto Peter’s panties, his fingers tangle in Wade’s hair, holding him close. “The type to fuck other men. No matter how pretty.”   
  
He pivots his hips, moving in a tight circle. Feeling every last movement inside of him, feeling the long, rough fingers against his prostate, he huffs out, “I’m getting impatient. Is your hand the only thing I'm riding tonight?”   
  
Peter reaches out and presses his hand against the clothed erection below him, feeling it pulse against his skin. He licks his lips. “Promises, promises. Am I gonna get a taste of what you were bragging about earlier?”   
  
A matching huff left Wade. He pulls his fingers out of the greedy hole quickly and pushes the small manicured hand away so he can undo his pants.   
  
As he pushes them down a bit and pulls his cock out, he looks up into those giant amber eyes. His mouth twitches, while he strokes his cock slowly, “I'm told I talk a lot....”   
  
He reaches up and grabs a handful of umber hair, pulling the dolled up face close to his, “But you are just as goddamn chatty.”   
  
He smiles against Peter’s lips “I'm gonna change that though, baby.”   
  
This won't be the first time Wade’s fucked an enemy's wife/bitch/mistress. Definitely not the first that he didn't even know their name.   
  
He reaches down to shift the silk material separating them to the side and guides his cock with the other, shifts the slender body and giving him no time to think or be adjusted before he pushes inside of him. Right to the hilt.   
  
A breathy chuckle passes his lips as he watches the dolled up face. So pretty, so controlled. But the shock and intensity of the intrusion lies in his eyes and lips. That won't do though. No. He'll remember this. Wade will be sure if it.   
  
Gripping the slender wrists and moving them behind the dancer’s to hold them in place tightly with only one of his own hands before pulling down so his back arches. His free hand runs over the soft skin of that slender back to his shoulder.   
  
This view is everything Wade could ask for. Each muscle in the lean body being stretched, the bones protruding, all begging to be bent and broken.   
  
And Wade wants to break this creature. It's so alluring. His cock throbs at the idea.   
  
A thrust up and all the muscles shift and flex as he accepts it. The Adam's apple in Peter’s slender neck bobs.

Jesus Christ, this is going to be more fun than Wade anticipated.  
  
He rolls his hips several times while he leans forward and runs his tongue up Peter’s ribs, ending with a flick to his pierced nipple timed to a hard thrust.   
  
Peter quickly grasps at several realizations. This is way more than just sex. Way more than just Wade wanting revenge on his sugar daddy. This crazed man really wants to break a pretty thing. See him sob and cry beneath him. It's not gonna happen.   
  
Not now.   
  
Peter drops his hips down, taking Wade in completely. A sharp moan. Wade wasn't expecting that.   
  
He keeps going, taking control, riding Wade. Sliding his wrists together but that rough hand is still holding onto them. “Nhf. Your dick is an amazing toy. That's all it ever will be. Just something I take pleasure from when I want.”   
  
He slows, moving his hips in tight slow circles, watching the controlled features of the man below him. He purrs out, “You're almost as good as daddy.”   
  
Wade’s icy eyes lock with doe eyes looking down at him. This man is not taking his shit, even struggling with him for power. If he weren't so hell-bent on overthrowing this empire, he'd say he was worth every ounce of his time and affection. He’d ask this creature to be his.   
  
Even though he’s perhaps the most interesting thing he’s met, Wade has things to do. Not worry about some trophy stripper arm candy.   
  
Releasing his grip on the small hands, he brings it up to wrap around the back of his neck. Their lips are close enough to share breaths.  “If you're pleasured I know I'm doing better than Fisk.”   
  
He huffs out another laugh,  “And you're still so chatty.”   
  
Wade bucks up and grabs at his legs to shift the smaller body down onto his back in a rough motion. This new position of being held down with his under knees over each of his forearms, and his hands gripping soft bare sides tightly to keep the creature in place, makes him take Wade as deeply as possible. And he has all the control.   
  
Even after he struggled a bit, not wanting to relinquish that power. “I promised I was going to change that.”   
  
Wade’s lips move over the slender neck before he can be truly verbally assaulted again. Peter is folded beautifully, like Wade knew he could be.   
  
There’s so much he could to such a perfectly trained whore. But in the now, he’s thrusting forward and pulling him to him in time.   
  
Peter grows a smidgen flustered. Wade almost wins by pushing him down. He almost let go but his wall slides back up.   
  
His fingers dig into the couch cushion, allowing a teeny moan before he purposefully tightens around Wade, listening to the noises being made while Wade fucks him. Powertrip.   
  
His slender fingers grip the base of his own cock and strokes it lazily. Precum already ruined the fabric of his new silk panties. Wade moved them over so he could get inside like a true gentleman. “Tell me how nice my hole is. Tell me how much you love it.”   
  
With a low and breathy voice against his ear, and each thrust resonating briefly in his speech Wade responds, “I love how every last inch of you is greedy for proper attention.”   
  
His hand moves under the panties and wraps around Peter’s hand. Making him grip himself tighter. “Not the kind of attention you receive daily.”     
  
He pulls back enough to look at the done up features of Peter’s face while he makes long dragging slides with his cock. He makes the hand in his grasp move slightly faster than he is moving inside of him. “Worshipped feels better than prized.”   
  
He slams back in harder and starts back up a quicker pace. His hand moving  to match.   
  
Wade lets out a guttural sound as he leans down to kiss up the smooth jaw. The taste of his skin is too sweet to resist.

  
This man is tough to crack. As much as Wade would like to see it, something about him refusing to do so is satisfying.   
  
And Wade is starting to get close. Though he should follow through and leave as quickly as possible, he needs this controlling sex more than his life right now. The refusal to crack is making him desperate.   
  
A smile curls on Peter’s painted lips once Wade speeds up. The man’s getting close if the noises he’s making are any indication.   
  
His hand against him, his thick cock hitting his prostate over and over, all has Peter about to cum. But he won't let Wade know that. No. The bulky man is finishing first.   
  
Peter bucks up onto him, breathily chuckling as he hears him gasp. “Are you close?”   
  
Gritting his teeth and letting go of Peter’s hand, he leans over him, looking directly in his eyes as he continues quick deep thrusts. “Will it make you feel powerful to hear?”   
  
Leaning in and whispering against Peter’s lips, “For a toy, you certainly like praise.”   
  
He pulls back again to keep eye contact with the dancer while he fights off his impending orgasm. Seriously, this little number is the hottest mob bitch he’s seen. It's too bad he’s just that. This is his job. Pleasuring and being used, prized, bought.   
  
He doesn't want to be the one to come first. It's like cracking. Peter wins if he comes first.   
  
He’s doomed. He’s doomed either way.   
  
He leans down again, one hand gripping the back of Peter’s neck while he presses his lips to the painted ones heatedly. Wade’s thrusts grow sharper and are on a mission while his cock throbs inside of Peter, begging for release that is slowly pulling closer.   
  
Biting down on Wade’s lower lip, and pushing his tongue back against Wade’s as his back arches, all of Peter’s trusted tactics to get a man off quickly.   
  
A few more thrusts and Wade’s pushed over the edge, coming hard inside of the enemy’s property.   
  
Peter’s makeup, aside from his lipstick which is currently being smeared against Wade’s mouth, is intact. Victory.   
  
He feels the man pull out, pull away. The dancer watches as the man moves the fabric of his panties to watch in morbid fascination as cum drips out of his hole.   
  
Peter doesn't finish. He doesn't need to. This was satisfaction enough. He won. He stretches out like a cat. “My name's Peter, by the way. You don’t have to keep calling me baby.”   
  
Icy blue eyes move away from the leaking hole and up to half lidded smug eyes. He tilts his head. He’s beyond satisfied with his handiwork. But there's one problem.   
  
His finger works a circular motion in his cum against the throbbing hole. Pushing a finger in a moment later and smiling. “Peter... hm. Well, Peter. I'm not done with you. So just lay there and look pretty. I take care of pretty little things. Especially if they take care of me.”   
  
He leans down to nip at the smooth and lean stomach, in between kisses he peeks at his cock throbbing in completely ruined and soaked panties.   
  
Finger turns to two as he continues nipping his way downward. Sure. Peter won. But Wade doesn't take defeat well.   
  
He looks up as he mouths over Peter’s panties. A competitive glint in his eyes.   
  
“Now, you're just trying to make a mess.” Peter pants.   
  
He watches the man’s mouth against his cock, his body shudders from head to toe, again. But he refuses to be undignified. If he comes, it'll be with some level of grace. He’s not giving him the satisfaction of watching him bend to his mouth like some desperate slut.   
  
The competitive glint is returned. “Alright then, sweetie. Let's see what you've got.”   
  
He slips the silk fabric down enough to pull Peter’s cock out, running his tongue up the underside of it from base to tip. His tongue lapping at the small amount of precum gathered at his slit while moving his fingers slowly in and out of the sopping wet hole.   
  
Wade presses a lazy kiss to Peter’s cock head before taking him in his mouth, smoothing his lips down the full length of his cock. Constricting the back of his throat as the head hits it.   
  
With dark eyes Wade watches him, the dancer’s cock is blocking his airway and it’s making him want to see Peter writhe. He moves slowly in short bobbing motions, keeping him almost fully in his mouth.   
  
Pulling back up and nearly letting him fall out of his mouth before surging down again picking up the short motions as before. Over and over. The same teasing motions. All while rubbing Peter’s prostate with his fingers. And here he thought Wade had never fucked men.   
  
Peter bites his lower lip to keep from screaming. A low sound escapes his throat.   
  
~ _Calm. Composed. Don't let him know he's mind blowingly good at sucking cock. It'll inflate his already obnoxious ego_ .   
  
The dancer’s legs spread a little, just to give Wade more room. He lets out a soft moan, lets his thighs twitch, lets his hole tighten. “Not fair...you play dirty.”   
  
~ _He wasn't kidding. I’m the Queen of cock worship, but this is some steep competition_ .   
  
In the end, Wade gets what he wants. Peter comes with a silent scream for mercy, eyes squeezed shut.   
  
Just watching his features controlled by ecstasy and tasting him has Wade excited again. Slowing his mouth but not stopping until the smaller body relaxes more.   
  
He swallows while holding him in his mouth, before he slowly pulls off and pulls his fingers out of him. Standing up from the long couch to fix his clothes while his chest stills heaves with heavy breaths. ~ _God I feel high._

  
But he really can't afford to dilly dally. He runs his fingers through his now messy blonde hair. He has until Peter gets home to have his shit ready. Cause Fisk is going to be pissed to know Wade slept with his prized doll. On top of that, _he_ didn't pay for Peter. His buddy Bob paid, with his hardworking wife's money. It's funny actually. But he can't tell Peter this inside joke.   
  
“I gotta run baby. I have a strict no return policy. But damn...”   
  
He smiles back at Peter, voice lowering, not caring if he hears but truly it's more directed to his slow working brain. “I'm sure we could work something.”   
  
Wade is utterly cheesy and wrong and terrible. He knows. It's part of the irritating charm.   
  
“Bob! We good?”   
  
A quick peek in the room and a nod before Bob disappears through the curtains again. Wade holds his hand out to Peter, helping him sit up. Again he kisses the back of it before smiling.   
  
Without another word he steps out and heads off with a visibly frustrated Bob.   
  
Getting the hell out of dodge is top priority.   
  
“A fucking hour you idiot. They could have alerted him already."   
  
“Yeah, yeah. Hop off my dick.” Wade huffs out as he looks his shifty eyed friend over.   
  
"What dick? The bitch probably still has it." He motions back to the club as they near the car.   
  
“If he wanted to keep it he could. Cause this daddy knows how to take of his babies.”   
  
"I hate the daddy talk. Just stop." Bob glares across the top of the car before the pair hop in. They parked a block away to avoid detection.   
  
This is not their territory and getting caught now would be premature. Wade wants the package delivered intact. Full of his cum and satisfied.   
  
He really adores this _Peter_ . Owning him would be divine. But he can't get ahead of himself.   


-

Peter gets back to his apartment at one.  
  
He knows he’s late but Fisk will understand. He even changed into his daddy’s favorite underwear to make up for it.

  
Fisk waited up for him. Peter smiles, making sure to keep that perfected mask under the makeup on.     
  
“Hi.”   
  
"You're late." Cold tone and equally as cold features.   
  
“Someone paid for an hour, they got an hour.”   
  
"Your curfew is midnight. You know that."   
  
He puts his bag down and crawls to Fisk like a good boy.  “I'm sorry daddy, won't happen again.”   
  
"Wilson was there, wasn't he?"   
  
There’s no way he can know that, Peter concludes before he answers, “Lots of people show up to the club. I don't remember faces.”   
  
Thick fingers bunch in his hair, rearing his head back and not in the fun way.   
  
"Wilson was there. He paid for you. You slept with him. Then you thought you'd come here and not tell me. Thats it, isn't it?"   
  
Peter’s eyes go wide, “No...no I was gonna tell you.”   
  
"When?"   
  
“Later...later when it mattered.”   
  
He’s jerked off the bed and dragged by his hair to the bathroom, before being pushed to the toilet. Fisk holds his head over the bowl, so Peter can see his own terrified expression in the water reflecting off white porcelain.   
  
"When it mattered? Doesn't it matter now?"   
  
“I should've said something...I should've.I’m sorry.”   
  
It isn't the first time he's attempted to drown Peter here. Much like the other times, his face is held within the water until his lungs hurt. He would have preferred a black eye, a bruise or something but no. No. It's the threat of death. It's always this. It’s Fisk’s favorite humiliation tactic.   
  
"Remember this Peter? Remember when all you did was turn tricks in the bathroom at some shit rate club? Remember when I found you? I gave you everything you own. Everything. Out of the kindness of my heart.” He flings Peter into a wall, giving a bruise to his damp hairline. The world spins, the wind rings too loudly, the streetlights outside are blinding.

“And you know what? I can take it away. You're mine. Without me you're nothing. So go ahead and fuck around with Wade Fucking Wilson. I can guarantee, when he goes down, you'll go down with him."  
  
This time Peter clung to any appeasing words he could think of desperately. “I'm sorry, daddy. I'm sorry, daddy. I won't do it again. He means nothing to me. I just want you.”  
  
"Good boy." Large hands pat Peter’s head.  
  
He is still forced to take his makeup off because daddy tells him to. And he knows it makes the smaller man feel ugly.  
  
He’s rough, unforgiving, and hurts Peter during sex again. Leaving bruises that won't fade for days.  
  
When he leaves, he says nothing. Just goes home to his wife treating this like the business deal it is.  


_~And I hate him I hate him I hate him._

  
\-   
Wade would have gone home after executing his plan with Fisk’s prized possession, but there was an incident at three in the morning.   
  
The call was disturbing. Weasel sounded panicked over the phone, the clacking of his keyboard nearly louder than he was.   
  
Money was moved from an account that no one has access to besides Jack and Wade. Second, several men went missing shortly after.   
  
Wade is almost certain it is an inside job. Even as information piles up to try and prove otherwise.   
  
The last group he sold arms to wasn’t satisfied and wanted to _return_ their purchase. They just wanted their cash back for some petty reason.  They somehow buddied up with Kingpin and made it _look_ internal.

That had to be it. A mole wouldn't make sense.  
  
Weasel is suspicious of the information, as is Wade. It’s confusing and complex. But the fact that men went missing was his top priority.   
  
He spent all morning scouting for them, trying to figure out exactly how they went missing and who could have taken them.   
  
They were found at six that night. Charred in an abandoned warehouse in Fisk’s territory.   
  
The stench of burning flesh still fucking Wade’s mouth as he sits across from Bob. Staring out the window of the hotel top restaurant watching the sky darken.   
  
"You gotta eat or rest, man"   
  
Wade finally looks at him while the man shovels food into his mouth. He isn’t acting like brothers died and Wade's delirious sleep deprived mind is running wild with suspicion. He’s been really suspicious of Bob lately. That’s never a good thing.

  
Bob’s neutral brown eyes flick up to look at the tired looking leader. He determined at least he looked clean and well to do. "What?"   
  
“That was almost a dozen men...”   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
Suspicious and mad. Wade grips the table cloth and glares at him. He growls the second most important thing on his mind “Do you think I can take down a whole empire by myself?”   
  
"Actually. Yeah. You've done it before" He continues shoveling food with a carefree look.   
  
The blonde scoffs and looks away. “When I was twenty maybe. But this isn't just some idiotic third world empire. This is Gus Fring level empire. I can't White this shit man. I'm not going to blow him up and call it good. It brings more assholes out. I have to tear off all the limbs at once.”   
  
"God. I shouldn't have let you watch Breaking Bad. Upside, Walter White was older than you and still took down the empire." He pointed his fork at Wade like this proved some sort of point.   
Wade stared at him incredulously. He was turning forty next year and seriously didn't need to be stressing over his age determining what he can and can't do. Even if it was in the smallest of ways.   
  
“He was sloppy. This can't be sloppy.”   
  
"You're freaked out?" This made Bob perk up.   
  
Wade wanted to rip his face off.  “I'm irritated. I want them to come at /me/. Now.”   
  
"Obviously fucking the bitch wasn't a good plan"   
  
“Oh no. That was a good plan. It just didn't work the way I wanted it to. That sexy ass is probably dead or his head is shaved and he's whacked out in some crack house. I feel a little bad. He was a good lay”   
  
A smile spread on Bob’s lips, "You fucked him even though you knew Fisk would kill him?"   
  
“Well... no. Not entirely. Fisk is methodical. But he can also act on rage. So honestly. I have no idea what he would actually do.” A little waitress walks by, ready to fill their wine glasses. Bob motions for her to leave the bottle.

“Which is why this little fiasco this morning is a little shocking. It's petty. I mean. He wants everyone under me to not trust each other. That's just dirty. Come at me with a gun for fucks sake and get it over with.”  
  
"You're sick,” Bob concludes with a slight head tilt, his eyes dull as he watches Wade.   
  
Wade rolls his eyes. “Yes. I know.”

He shifts in his chair, prepared to get up. “I need to get the fuck out of here. I'm going to Hell's Kitchen again.”  
  
"WHY?!" The man choked on his food as his leader stood.  
  
“Because I'm a psycho and want to play. Come on.”  
  
-  
  
New car, new plates, amazing tint. They stop when they are a block from the club.  
  
“I'm surveying. You can do whatever you want. Get out. Stay. Masturbate. Whatever. Just don't talk me out of what I'm doing.“  
  
"Jesus Christ. Chill"  
  
Wade can’t take it anymore, he glares at him “You've been weird today....”  
  
"What?"  
  
“Are you fucking with me, Bob?”  
  
"Oh, my god. Not this traitor talk again"  
  
“You betrayed me once before. Drugs. I get it. But if you are fucking with me this time... I _will_ kill you. I've reached a point today that I should not reach. So you better start proving your loyalty, asshole.”  
  
He nods and swallows thickly.  
  
Wade moves his head back to the direction of the club and pulls out a handheld scope. “We have five minutes before we need to leave. There's a roof across the way that looks guard free. You gonna stay with me?”  
  
"Yes, sir." His tone is defeated but compliant.  
  
The leader lets out a quiet sound of annoyance as he scouts the parking lot, sidewalk, and front entrance. The back entrance is vaguely within view. He’s looking for two things: Peter and Wilson.  
  
He need visual confirmation of both. Fisk's a huge pain in his ass today. And he’s curious as to Peter’s life status. He does care. But also... this is war.

-

  
_War._ Peter could almost scoff. Wade is a bit of a livewire, loose cannon, wild card. Fisk doesn't view him as much of a threat.   
  
That doesn't mean he isn't being punished for not being upfront about sleeping with an enemy, no matter how small.   
  
This is one of the few times Peter actually looks like a man. When he's being punished, he knows better than to try and pretty up.   
  
Fisk's kind enough to leave him his foundation, eyeliner, and red lipstick. Peter’s favorite shade, he wants his pet to feel comfortable.   
  
A sweater and jeans cover most of the bruising. Peter hates him. But in this moment, standing behind him, maybe some of his affection returns. What can he say? Power is a turn on. And right now Fisk radiates it.   
  
The men are a sea of tuxes and holsters all looking up at HIS man.   
  
"He thinks he's ready to play big boy games. He's a young punk who’s managed to scare a couple of weaklings into being his underlings. They'll be suspicious now. But we need this operation to implode and soon."   
  
Peter looks out the window while his daddy talks to his men. He sees a figure on the roof and smiles. “Babe, think we have company.”   
  
"God fucking damn it. What are you idiots doing just gawking? Go get him!"   
-

  
Once Wade and Bob scaled up to the roof and started scoping from there, they saw that Fisk was already in his office.   
  
All Wade could think was how this asshole charred eleven men. Eleven fucking men.   
  
"They are heading out. Take the fucking shot, Wade!”   
  
He's looking through a hand held scope while Wade stands, planted firmly beside the edge looking through the scope of an m40 rifle.   
  
This is revenge. This is Wade pissed off. He’s been to war, this is bullshit compared to it. When he notices Peter in the office with Fisk he hesitates to actually pull the trigger.   
  
The rifle is a bolt action, so he'll have to reload. Which is why Bob is standing so close with shells in hand. He looks at Wade, obviously panicking. "Just take out the goons you bastard"   
  
“I'm taking out the men that come out. One by fucking one. Be ready.”   
  
Wade refuses to admit that the reason he’s waiting is so that he doesn’t get Peter killed.   
  
He lets most of them spill out before he takes his first shot.   
  
One. Reload as the blood bursts through the back of his head and rains on the cracked asphalt below.   
  
Two. Reload as the bullet tears through his chest and ricochets off the ground.   
  
Three. Reload as the blood pours down the front of his white button up, staining it from the large gushing wound of his neck.   
  
By the time he’s on his ninth he feels himself being watched.   
  
The moment to act is brief, he shoves Bob down and dives over him as shots start rolling over them. How rude. Using semi autos when he was kind enough to make this personal.   
  
He straps the rifle on and pulls out a handgun. Bob does the same.   
  
“Seeeeeeeeeee. SLOPPY!” He shouts in Bob’s face over the sound of rapid gunfire, making him cower but nodding while he does.   
  
Wade violently tugs on the other man’s shirt and motions to the roof across the alley. They take off at the same time, running full force to jump over the alley gap.   
  
Once they land on the other side, Wade looks back. Men are spilling out and swarming everywhere. Claiming this was a genius plan would be both a lie and stupid. He knew this was reckless.   
  
His icy blue narrowed eyes look around, planning this out better than he had. Pinging around his skull was the ideas of ‘ _I still need to take three more lives to be even_ .’   
  
But really he knew he should just leave.   
  
A huff escapes his lips as he stalks over to the ledge of the building the duo was on. He turns and chucks the rifle to Bob and takes the man’s hand gun.   
  
“Cover me. There's ten down this alley. I'm taking all of them then we are getting out of here through there.”   
  
Wade points the barrel to an open window of an apartment complex of the next building.  He’s planning for them to be harbored until he can get someone to pick them up. Semi well thought out plan.   
  
"You can't just kill more of them you idiot!" Bob’s tone is laced in doubt and anger. Making Wade smile and put a clip in his mouth.   
  
Climbing down the ladder to get a closer look at the men below he concludes that they are scouting the alley for anymore members of his awesome little shit show.   
  
Wade could laugh if he weren’t so focused. ~ _Nope. Just me and bob._   
  
Once he is close enough he holds both barrels out and fires a round from each into the skulls of two men. Four men fall before the others think to pull their own firearms out.   
  
The lone man jumps down the rest of the way to the ground, pistol whipping one lackey while hitting another in the eye with a bullet.   
  
The dance is quick, with bullets flying and blood spilling. By the end of it, Wade only has one bullet graze wound and bloody knuckles from beating the last man standing to death.   
  
In a haze from the high of taking so many lives in such a short time while he holsters the spent arm and holds Bob's loosely as the man climbs down to be on the ground with Wade.   
  
His right hand man shot down two of them.  Not bad, in Wade’s opinion. He was grateful that Bob /at least/ covered him, easing his suspicions some.   
  
They nod and exhale before running to the neighboring building, scaling the fire escape, and climbing into the open bedroom window Wade spotted. No one is home surprisingly. Luck seemed to be on the mobster’s side today.   
  
They clean their wounds up before they make a call. It's gonna be a while before their men can get them.   
  
Shit is bad in Queens for the Deadpool Corps and Wade’s flustered with his choice of coming here instead of staying. Potentially putting the lives of his men in danger did not settle well.

  
While sitting on the couch he reloads all of the guns and keeps their personal handguns out. Putting the rest in the duffle bag Bob the Bitch is supposed to carry.   
  
With nothing else to do, Wade decides to look around the apartment from the couch. It’s nice, not too personal but very decorative. He suspects a woman lives here based off the smell, and taste of the decor.   
  
Considering it's starting to get late, this mystery woman should be home soon. She will be hospitable. They always are when a gun is drawn.   
  
"Nineteen Wade.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
"That was a little hot back there though." Bob wiggles his eyebrows to make the other leader burst out in laughter.   
  
“Why thank you. I try.” Wade’s phone chirps and he looks down.   
  
[ **eta 30m** ]   
  
The man leans his head back and rests it on the couch as Bob starts going over the next course of action to take. He’s only half listening, his mind on that pretty little thing dangling off Fisk’s arm back at the club.   
  
He really hopes he pissed Fisk off.

-  
Peter cannot believe just how much Wade has pissed Fisk off. It’s the angriest he’s seen the man in the entirety of knowing him. He knows that tonight, he won’t see his daddy. He'll be working and plotting against the **threat** .   
  
He takes his time to walk to his apartment. It’s nice. Close to daddy, close to work.   
  
With a sigh, he throws his hand bag down and goes to the tidy kitchen within his upscale apartment to make a drink.   
  
He lifts his head when he hears noises.  It takes a moment to fully register that the sound of two grown ass men whispering loudly about 'what the fuck they should do’ was coming from his den.   
  
He bends down to take the small handgun out of its ankle holster and walks cautiously to the living room.   
  
“You have fifteen fucking seconds to explain why the fuck you're in my apartment.”   
  
Bob startles and stills instantly, staring up at Peter holding a gun directed at Wade. Eyes moving from Peter to Wade and back again.   
  
Meanwhile, Wade bursts out in raucous laughter. He takes up five of those seconds just laughing before he raises his own gun to Peter and cocks it. His laughter fades into a low hum with the beautiful click sound.   
  
“I should start gambling again, Bob. What is my luck tonight? First I kill the majesty's royal guards and now I've hid out in his bitch’s apartment. Praise Jesus, hail Satan. Whichever keeps this luck going.”   
  
Wade wipes his mouth with his bloodied hand. A tic when too worked up, before continuing,  “Don't worry sweetheart. We will be out of your hair soon.”   
  
His eyes wander over the lithe body doing a really sexy angry stance. The look in the mobster's eyes can be taken as lust. But somewhere in there is concern. Something about Peter isn't right, off.   
  
Slowly lowering his weapon and putting the hammer back (as well as the safety on!) Wade sets his gun down on the couch. He stands up in a smooth motion and in a low threatening voice he growls out,  “Bob. Out.”   
  
The small twitchy man scrambles up and heads in a direction to get him out of the same room as Wade. Peter doesn’t take his eyes off Wade or lower his weapon. That doesn’t stop Wade from moving toward him.     
  
“I didn't take you as the gun wielding type. But you are just full of surprises aren't you?”   
  
With a crazed look in his eye the mobster backs the smaller man into the wall and makes him press the barrel of his gun into the scar tissue of his neck. This close Wade can see marks and bruises that he knows weren't there yesterday.   
  
Peter tenses, not wanting Wade this close to him. He catches the man’s eyes wandering and anger flares within him. He doesn’t want anyone knowing what happened, especially not this murderous cunt. His tone is threatening, “Back. The fuck. Up.”   
  
Moving his hand to the small hip and squeezing gives Wade the answers he needs. He doesn't get a full reaction, but enough of one to know. To know Fisk beat him. He suspected he hurt him in other ways, too. He can't explain why it angers him. Maybe it's the lack of sleep and vengeful mindset today.   
  
The wince brought out of him angers Peter even more. Wade digs into the biggest bruise on his body. But the wall slides back up as quickly as it tried to fall. “Why shouldn't I tell him you're here? Why shouldn't I rip out your throat?”   
  
The dancer is shaking now. Wade of all people is seeing him weak and vulnerable makes him want to scream. Makes him want to cry, but his face stays the same.   
  
Plain and simple, Wade used Peter. Seeing the repercussions though is something he’s not used to. “You _should_ tell him I'm here. Maybe it'll make him stop beating you... for a while.”   
  
He doesn't budge though. Large calloused hands move over Peter’s and guide them to move the gun right under his chin. Something snaps. This beautiful creature before him is one he wants to own, break, let see him.   
  
“Have you ever seen blood, brain, and skull fragment paint the ceiling? It's more beautiful when self-inflicted. Like they are painting their final masterpiece with the tortured remains of their head. Not everything has to be horrifying if looked at in a new light. You need a new light... so all the things you look at right now will contrast your previous view drastically.”   
  
A horribly morbid smile spreads across his lips until his phone chirps. After pulling it out to check it, **[18 minutes]** , he looks back up at Peter. A part of him is obsessed with the idea of looking at the marks left behind on the pretty whore’s body. Like punishing himself will make this better, real, meaningful.   
  
The whole thing is fucked up.   
  
He knows Peter would still be caught up in this even if he hadn't used him. That thought makes his features go neutral as he moves his hand back to Peter’s and runs them up the younger man’s slender forearms.   
  
“You have 15 minutes. That's enough time to have Wilson come and take care of me, for you to kill me and Bob, or let me break you so you can actually cry for once.   
  
He tilts his head slightly, waiting for man to decide.   
  
“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you! Why does this have to be on your terms you asshole!?”   
  
The gun drops, but Peter doesn't care. It doesn't stop him from kicking Wade hard in the shin.   
  
“Why should I cry? Cause my pimp hurt me? Oh big shock there! This was our agreement, Wade. I fuck up, I get punished. I get beat for being a stupid whore.”   
  
The sleeves of his sweater rolled up with Wade’s motions, showing off nasty new bruises.   
  
“That’s all I am, a stupid whore.” It’s said bitterly, but still no tears. Peter hasn't cried real tears in years, not since he was ten. “What right do _you_ have to judge me?”   
  
“ _I_ am not judging you.”   
  
Wade finally says after sucking in air sharply and forcing himself to ignore the pain to stand his ground while Peter lashes out. He knows a broken soul when he sees one. Fuck. He’s been there.   
  
He doesn't look away from those amber eyes though. “The last time someone told me they were just a stupid whore, they painted the ceiling for me right after. As beautiful as it was, what she said wasn't true. You are never just one thing.”   
  
A moment of reflection forces Wade to look up at the ceiling like he can still see his mother's painting when looking at a ceiling. Which honestly, he does. That's not something you can unsee.   
  
The imagery is mesmerizing though, it’s an obsession of Wade’s. Something he relies on for comfort. The final moments of his mother were as beautiful as she was. His tone is distant, like he’s lost in the memory.   
  
“I'm going to kill Fisk and take everything you have in life away from you. Will you cry then? When you have nothing and I tell everyone to not take you in? I _will_ break you and it _will_ be on my terms. I just thought I'd offer you a softer cushion to fall on when you do break.”   
  
He finally looks down at Peter. A smirk tugging at his lips. “So which is it? Kill me or break?”   
  
“You...you are a sick sadistic fuck!”   
  
And in that moment of losing himself Peter lunges at the smug man, gun still forgotten. He wraps his hands around Wade’s neck but the dumb cunt is laughing. He’s trying to strangle him and he’s laughing.   
  
And he is so insane with anger that he kisses Wade, bites both of his lips, feeling Wade’s hands on his ass and he realizes this man will ruin him. He nips at the man’s tongue at the revelation.   
  
Even if he somehow kills Fisk, it won't be enough.   
  
“You're insane.”  He says breathlessly between kisses. The taste of blood, seeing his lipstick on Wade mixing into his sweat and the blood of Fisk's dead soldiers makes his body feel hot all over.   
  
A firm grip at Peter’s ass and Wade pulls him up to press against him harder. The taste of his blood on Peter’s tongue is more erotic than it should be. Maybe it's just because Wade is sick, but this is by far the best hate he’s ever received.   
  
Another kiss, all teeth and tongue. Peter rasps out, “I hate you. I hate you.”   
  
Low moans escape throughout their kisses. Especially when Peter starts telling Wade he hates him. Wade knows, this will be the man who sees him, truly sees him.   
  
“I love how you hate me.” He rasps out between tasting the remnants of his blood on Peter’s tongue. The almost chalky dye taste of lipstick is a nice touch too.   
  
Knowing his time is almost up, he gets a little more desperate. He doesn't want it to be over, he wants this beautiful creature to hate fuck him like the world was ending. He presses his hardened crotch against Peter as he thinks it. Cause hell, why not.   
  
There’s no grasp on what this is between them. It's unlike anything Wade’s ever experienced. And all he knows is that he desperately wants it.   
  
After licking Peter’s upper lip and opening his eyes, he whispers in a low and challenging tone. “I want you to show me just how much you hate me, baby.”   
  
Wade rolls his hips ever so slightly and Peter frantically pulls him in for yet another heated kiss with biting and tasting. Wade is prepared to jump into the pit of truly insane with this fierce attention.   
  
He moves his hand up to Peter’s head and rakes his fingers through his hair before pushing the man’s head back just as his phone chirps.   
  
Wade couldn’t look anymore crazed. Lipstick stained mouth, messed up hair from jumping across roofs, red marks over the old scars on his neck, blood all over his nice clothes, and heavy breathing.   
  
“Catch ya around, honey. I got a secret lair to get back to.”   
  
He leaves in a blur, grabbing his duffle bag off the ground, gun off the couch, and whistling towards the other room to get Bob’s attention. Before he leaves, Wade looks back at Peter and smirks.   
  
Crumbling to the floor, Peter is left alone in a panting, pissed, and horny beyond all belief mess. He stares towards where Wade just left. He doesn’t understand the mobster in any way shape or form.   
  
He can’t be bothered with the confusion though as he shoves two fingers inside his needy hole, fucking himself on them and wishing they were Wade’s cock instead.   
  
Crying out the man’s name when he finishes and choosing to lay in his mess while the reality of what he’s doing crashes over him.   
  
Whispering to the hardwood floor, “I hope we never see each other again. Cause I know I'll fall in love with you.”   
  
Peter gathers himself slowly and enters his bathroom in a state of indifference. The shower isn’t nearly hot enough to wash away the stirring emotions.   
  
Even sleep evades him, staying up way too late and obsessing in the most inelegant way about what Wade and all of their interactions even mean.   
  
He doesn't want a relationship. Not with Wade. Not with anyone. Except for Matty. Maybe. But even Matty is a complicated mess of feelings.   
  
Matt Murdock is his savior and first love. The man, who saved him from his despair, saved a broken and abandoned 16 year old from the pressure of New York’s cold unforgiving streets, from the memory of a pill junkie Aunt.

**  
** Aunt May was as much his mother as anyone could be. She was his only support after the death of his parents, and the death of his uncle. She could have done so much more and been so much more but the weight of her husband’s murder was her ultimate demise.  
  
There are times even now, where he closes his eyes and sees her outstretched hand and vomit soaked nightgown and face.  
  
Pitiful Peter Parker huddled against the wall as he watches her die. Ten years old and wetting himself. Six years of prostituting and homelessness followed.   
  
He would have died if it weren’t for Matty.  
  
So, Peter owed Matt his life and his vague sense of happiness, even if being around the man complicated both of their lives. He couldn’t stay away, not for too long anyway.  
  
He came to a conclusion as the night wore on.  
  
~ _This is going to kill me. This going to kill me and I don't care._

****


	2. Non-Stop Pop! Pop!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*  
> Explicit depictions of gang war related gore, violence, and death.

_ War is a state of armed conflict between different groups within a nation or state. Armed fighting, as a science, profession, activity, or art; methods or principles of waging armed conflict. _

There were numerous times when Wade would read into the world’s understanding of war, and the one time he came to the word ‘art’ in a description he couldn’t help smiling. Art is powerful, appreciated, and beautiful. To think that the only skill he could truly use could be appreciated and even beautiful was power in itself. 

He pulls his eyes away from the computer screen and rubs at them with the heel of his palms. There was a war coming his way, a war that everyone doubted he could win. If he was being entirely honest, he doubted he could pull off whacking Wilson Fisk. The Kingpin has been around for a long time and has built himself a strong following.

But even the best must crumble eventually. With a small nod to himself, Wade stands from his desk and catches a glimpse of his watch as he stretches. It’s that time in the morning when proper businessmen kiss their wives goodbye, kids run from the bus to greet their friends, and the roads are jammed with morning commuters. The beginning of a new day in the real world. 

For men like Wade, this time in the morning meant peeling himself from his desk, speeding off to his best friend’s house, trying to kiss him tenderly and being rejected, and plot a high risk murder of the mob boss he pissed off.

A quick look in the mirror before he heads out, he takes in the uneven skin of the scarring on his neck. The man looking back at him is one Wade has seen enough, but still has trouble recognizing. He’s aged and scarred in ways he wishes he could forget. 

He shakes his head and snatches the keys from the table. He doesn’t have time to dwell on his dwindling vanity, he has a war to tend to and a greasy Weasel to love on.

 

-

 

It’s a beautiful home, but there’s a million like it in the neighborhood. Identical manicured lawns lined up one by one. Like prisoners in a chain gang. Roads of McMansions for the well to do. Good money. Clean money. Men in suits that didn’t reek of gunpowder, and women with morals, who took their kids to church on Sundays. 

There’s a pool in the back, with toys and pool noodles still floating in blue water.  Peter can almost see the rolling credits for  _ Leave it To Beaver _ in front of the suburban sweetness. 

Peter hesitates for a moment, just a moment. A family lives here. 

Children live here. 

Fisk told him that this was men’s work, that he had one job and this was it. Get them to open the door. He wouldn’t hold a gun, he wouldn’t get blood under his pretty pink nails. No, all he had to do was get them to open the door. 

The wife answers, and she’s young. Couldn’t be over 40. She’s shocked to see him, even more shocked when men in black with loaded guns part around Peter and storm into the house. No security alarms, no calling the police. The lines were cut hours in advance. 

Wilson’s figure darkens the door frame to the sitting room. Peter watches helplessly as mother and daughter are tied together. The girl’s eyelashes are matted together with tears and too much mascara. A childish display of adulthood. They look at him, a mix of hatred, of fear, of pleading. But he’s not the hero here. He’s just as much a victim. 

“Good evening, sorry to intrude,” Wilson’s smooth voice almost sounds comforting, “But we’re here on business.” 

The man being held down whimpers, “Please...please just let them go. I’ll do whatever you want....please just let my family go...” 

“Wade Wilson,” Wilson grabs the man by his chin, forcing him to look up, “Is that name familiar to you?” 

Eyes widen in recognition. Daddy smiles way too wide, “That’s what I thought.” He looks past them all, deep into the victim’s watery eyes. He sticks out his hand expectantly, “Bonesaw.”

The sound of screams ricochets off the walls into his ear canals. Sobs from the two bound women in the corner. The smell of piss, blood. The girl throws up on herself, she’s crying so hard. 

“God why...why would you do this?” His wife bawls. 

Expertly hacking each limb, one by one. Blood pooled and splattered the plush rug in the den with each loud crunch and grind. The sickening sound of bones cracking, arms and legs stacked in the corner. He’s blubbering now. He looks up from his pool of blood, chunks of bone and flesh. Bloody torn skin and muscle instead of arms, legs. “Kill me. Kill me, please.” 

This is playtime for Kingpin’s men. They all laugh, like this was all some cruel sick joke. Peter manages a forced smile. A nameless, faceless minion sits on his chest with a scalpel. A final, merciful slit to the throat. He gurgles his final words. Blood and spit running down his chest, staining his shirt. 

A huge weight settles on his shoulders. It might break his neck. And he can still feel those eyes, burning into his skin. Silent hatred.  _ You did this. You did this to us. _ He’s just as guilty as Fisk. 

He can’t look away. He knows his daddy will punish him if he does. Hard amber eyes lined in onyx wings hold the horror stricken gaze of the dead man’s wife as Kingpin moved towards them.  

_ Bang! Bang!  _

The smell of gunpowder burns his nostrils. A bullet between both sets of eyes leaves a large splatter of blood and bits of skull behind slumped bodies.

There is nothing beautiful about this blood soaking up in cream carpeting. Nothing beautiful about the stink of death all around them. The warmth of the palm against his back should be comforting, but it isn’t, “Let’s go sweetheart.” He sounds so cheerful, so satisfied. 

He leans into him as they start to head out, “Never cross me again, okay Pumpkin?” 

“Yes, Daddy.” 

Fisk leads Peter out of the  _ very  _ suburban home as several of his men file in past them. 

The shutter of a camera lens sounds like a gun going off as he walks down the pristine stone steps of the path towards the driveway.

 

\- 

 

"Fuck."  

Wade runs his hand across his face, eyes glued to the photos. The revenge had been so sweet, so satisfying. But the clapback, he couldn’t have expected it to escalate so quickly. 

He shakes ever so slightly while his eyes remain glued to the splatter of blood and brain behind the slumped heads of his friend’s wife and daughter. His features harden.

Weasel looks back at the quieted leader. Knowing all too well that this is about to blow up. "Wade..." 

“Shut the fuck up and listen to me,” The chair hits the floor as Wade bolts upright. Weasel backs up subconsciously. “I need access to chemicals. Find a place that has these, and disable the security then call me.” He shoves a small piece of crumpled paper into his friend’s hands. 

“Sure. Gotcha, you...um...need anything else?” 

“I have to call Murdock and Castle.” He let’s out a sigh. An inkling that something is wrong pulls at his mind. Some form of flux is coming together. 

“You’re insane, you know that? Absolutely insane.” 

“Don’t poke the bear unless you want the horns.”

“That’s not-just, try not to get us all killed.” 

“No promises,” He kisses Weasel’s forehead before tearing out of the room. 

 

-

 

The bed is warm, the night is calm. And Vanessa knows if she answers the phone, the peaceful bubble will burst. She watches the light of her phone dance, lets the vibrations play in her ears as she nuzzles into the pillow. She knows who it is. She doesn’t have to look, but she does have to answer. There’s defiance and control in waiting till the last moment to pick up.

“It’s bad. I’m going to need all the help I can get.” 

Her heart pounds in her throat as the seriousness in Wade’s tone settles deep down in her bones. She understands. But she doesn’t agree. As if on cue, Frank sits up in bed at the absence of her warmth. Their eyes meet and in that moment, he knows too. 

It’s a game they’re familiar with. A sad, twisted script they’ve rehearsed over and over. 

“Please...” 

“We’ll be careful.” 

She could almost laugh at how sure her husband sounds. How confident he is about his safety, about the safety of the man already getting out of bed. Before she even hangs up, he’s getting dressed. 

“Will you be here when I get back?” He looks her face over, before focusing on his hands buttoning his shirt. 

Vanessa presses her lips together. She has to play wife right now. If there’s a weakness in the fortress, it’ll be exploited. She cannot be the weak link. She looks up at him, eyes molten. She wants to stay, but Frank isn’t her husband. 

“He won’t sign the papers, Frank.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His gun slips in his holster, his jacket’s already on his shoulders. Precise, quick, unreadable. 

Vanessa will never not be surprised at how quickly army men prepare for battle. Humanity sucked out of them, replaced with such terrifying efficiency. No wonder they make such amazing hitmen, such incredible killers. 

“I’m going back home,” A tiny plea, “I would stay but...” 

“Appearances are important.” He walks over and kisses her hairline. Gun calloused fingers trail down her bare arm until their fingers are intertwined, “I’ll call you when I can.” 

None of this is fair. None of this is right. But it’s life. And she choose the unfair and the wrong when she said ‘I do.’ She wants to claim that Wade was a mistake, but Wade led her here. She couldn’t resent him entirely.

She could never resent him for much of anything, actually. She’d try, but the guilt would slide off him. After all she’s seen with him, all they’d done together, it was impossible to see him as evil. Broken. Her husband was broken, and it was her duty to pick up the pieces and put him back together. 

“Don’t die.” It’s a breathless, humorless laugh. A sad, watery smile. 

He smiles back, presses his lips to hers softly before resting his forehead to hers,  “No promises, sweetheart.”

Vanessa fidgets with the pendant resting against her chest. The weight of the still air in Frank’s bedroom becomes heavier when the door closes behind him. She swallows against the burning in her throat.

“I love you.” 

 

\- 

 

Wade looks at his phone screen for a long moment before calling Matt Murdock. The man is trustworthy and is beneficial to something of this magnitude. He’s helped him out of numerous tough spots. 

He knows Matt hates Fisk more than he does. The attorney agrees to meet with Wade and Frank after admitting to hearing about the hits. He knows what all of this means, even though his default stoicism is all Wade is met with. 

Frank Castle's already on his way to Matt's law firm. Wade meant what he said to his wife. Her plead wasn’t for him though. A heavy sigh escapes him. Best get on with the chaos to lessen the weight of his guilt.

As he arrives at  _ Nelson and Murdock _ law firm, taking in the dim light pouring from the office window, Wade can’t quite shake the guilt of dragging his wife’s lover into this mess. The man didn’t owe him anything despite how often he said he did. 

He should just deal with the mess he made alone. It’s what everyone is thinking, and Wade can’t help thinking it too. Call it the power of suggestion, but he honestly wouldn’t want Frank killed for his own stupidity.

The door to the small office is ajar, voices quietly carrying through the stuffy air. Wade listens to the two men inside discuss a recent political headline and how it will impact New York. He almost forgot that the men were friends of sorts, something about shared religious coping mechanisms. 

“How long are you planning on just standing there?” It’s Matt who finally speaks up, and Wade can’t help wondering if he made the man uncomfortable.

Stepping into the room lined with books and a messy yet somehow organized desk in the middle, Wade feels the air change drastically. He clears his throat. “Didn’t want to interrupt the gal pal-ing.”   
  


Frank huffs, moving around the desk to open up his duffle bag to show Wade his assortment of tactical gear. A giddy fangirl-ish squeal escapes the crazed mobster at the sight of Kevlar and leather. 

Matt audibly sighs and rubs at his forehead, “Jesus Christ, I can  _ smell _ your arousal over these guns. Get a room.” 

Frank and Wade look at each other, the latter swears he can see the other man smile. They both shake their heads at the attorney’s disgust. Matty-boy hates guns, mobs, gangs, criminals, and the idea of two ex-military assholes planning war in his office. 

"What's the plan?" Frank finally asks, Matt quiets as if in agreement. 

Wade runs it down, “Matt will be our-” he snickers before he can even get it out, “-eyes and ears. Legally obtaining the information we need with Jack’s help. Keeping the police busy and heat off our back.” 

Matt seems preoccupied and uptight about something he’s keeping to himself. Wade decides to continue even if he doesn’t have all of the attention from the audience, “While Frank and Wade, that’s me, are team  _ force to be reckoned with _ .” 

With that, Frank starts stripping off his clothes down to his undershirt and underwear without being prompted. Wade makes a face to feign interest and respect before doing the same.

In the middle of Wade prattling on about the ethics of circumcisions, Matt pulls out his phone  and leaves the room with a small, “I’ll be in contact.”

The two left in the dingy office catch each other’s eyes once again. All Wade gets is a grunt, taking that as a sign to let it go. Whatever Matt was thinking wouldn’t be known to them. It isn’t long before both are changed into all black tactical gear, including bullet proof jackets, lots of pockets for ammo, gloves, and boots. 

The Punisher and Deadpool calling an alliance to take down the big bad boss. 

 

-

 

“I cannot believe you actually started this war, Wilson.” The heavy New York accent makes Castle’s bloodthirsty tone that much more frightening. 

“What can I say, Castle? I’m not exactly sane. Admit you’re happy. We are in this together, taking down New York’s top dog.” Wade looks up from his text to Bob to look at the man driving, his features sporadically lit by the passing street lamps. 

A briefly pause settled between them before a trace of a smirk curls the corner of Frank’s lips as he slams on the pedal. “You’re gonna die.”

Laughter fills the car, quickly swallowed by the wind rushing through the windows. Death has never stopped Wade before and it wasn’t going to now. This is something he’s been planning for years now. Well, not necessarily planning, but he was going to do this one way or another. Power is delicious, and Wade is starving.

Stealth is important, but so is an easy getaway. Castle parks just down the street from the first club. Wade’s busy blue eyes scan the dark sidewalk he steps onto as he shuts the passenger door. His gloved hands clench into fists while inhaling the warm night air. Is it possible to smell blood before it’s spilled? 

The sound of the trunk popping pulls his mind from the thought and makes his heart flutter with excitement. He steps around to look in and lets out an exaggerated moan. A nod is all he gets from Frank. Strong and silent type until the day he dies. 

_ Which will not be today. _

“No wonder Nessa loves you.” Wade mumbles as he digs through one of the many bags and pulls out an assault rifle identical to what Frank has chosen.

“How many?” Frank’s eyes and hands are focused on loading and assembling a HK416. He doesn’t have to look at Wade to know he’s currently shoveling ammunition into his pockets like a kid at a candy store after being told he can have as much as he likes. That describes Wade the best he decides, and not for the first time. Wade is a child. 

“There are ten to twenty posted at each club. Normally.” Wade responds while he loads and assembles his own, voice distant as he focuses.

“Normally?”

“Well...” Wade looks to him and the man just shakes his head. 

The trunk slams shut and the two heavily armed men straighten up. With a tight lipped and focused glare Frank finally asks a question that’s no doubt been on his mind since they got in his car, “Where are your men?”

“I keep my people scattered. Some are here in Hell’s Kitchen, others are watching places we know Kingpin frequents.” 

Frank grunts and clenches his jaw. Blue eyes dart from the pulsing veins of the clenched jaw beside him to the club’s neon signs in front of him. He’s known Frank for a very long time. That sort of reaction is just his neutral and pensive state. 

“What about your Punisher squad?” Stoicism doesn’t drag Wade down. His tactic is ‘always upbeat and distracting’. Two men with polar opposite personalities and tactics yet the exact same skill set. A beautiful match made in hell.

“We have back up if we need it.” 

 

-

 

After knocking out the bouncer and entering the club, goons in suits with their side arms drawn swarm the two immediately.

_ A welcome party!  _

Neither man needed to say a word to each other to know exactly what the other planned. When one raised his assault rifle, the other did the same. Covering each other while keeping the same goal in mind.  _ Eliminate the enemy. _

Patrons and dancers alike scream and scurry away from the dimly lit floor when the sound of repetitive gunfire erupted. The men split up once all seven of the suits are riddled with bullets and cooling on the tiled floor. 

Their second objective is stopping the dancers from leaving. They’re all huddled together in the backroom, glitter and sweat and skin tight clothes. 

“Don’t move,” Wade says, “Don’t try to run. And this will be easy.” 

One of the girls looks like she’s reaching for something, and he cocks the gun. “What did I say?” 

She drops her hands to her sides slowly, keeping her eyes locked with his as Frank joins them. A cold mask plastered to his face. The less sane of the two nudges his concerned friend, raising an eyebrow and smiling. “Fisk has some well behaved girls, doesn’t he?” 

Frank’s frown only deepens, eyes shifting between the dancer and his friend. He hopes to God that she just listens, she’s feeding into Wade’s need to prove a point. He’s not just some maniac with a gun, he’s dangerous right. It feels like a lifetime before Wade’s phone chirps, setting them into action again. 

The armed men file the dancers out the back door, Wade specifically leading the woman trying to resist his commands before. Frank decided not to speak up when he started nonstop chattering in the girl’s ear. “Statistically speaking, those with problems with authority are more likely to get shot... by me. Or the police I guess.” 

She turns her head to glare at him. She’s reached her limit, “Do you ever shut up?!” 

Wade grabs her shoulders and presses her against the black unmarked box car waiting for them. He opens his mouth and stops when he notices that the box car he ordered wasn’t as he expected.  

“This looks like one of Fisk’s...” Wade commented coolly, eyes scanning over the shiny siding. Abandoning his attempt to threaten the dancer completely as he steps back to look at the vehicle more closely.  He steps around back to open it for the five ‘hostages’ to get inside. It smells clean and there were hardly any scuffs on the floor.  _ It is one of Fisk’s!  _

Miss Sassy-pants gets shoved in first. Frank stands beside Wade as he moves the girls, glaring at them so they don’t try to bolt. He turns to look at Frank once they are all inside. The man’s eyes are hard, questioning. Trying and failing to hide the suspicion at his friend in the driver’s seat, Wade just shakes his head before moving to the rolled down driver’s side window.

Pounding and shrieking starts from inside the metal box the moment the door was locked. 

“We got four more stops.” Wade says through gritted teeth to Bob sitting behind the wheel.

“Ya got it boss.” His eyes never stay bon Wade long. Fidgeting and chewing on a splintered toothpick. It takes a lot of force for Wade to not slam his right hand man’s head into the steering wheel and hope the toothpick lodges in his throat.

 

\- 

 

The exact same thing went down at each. Execute the suits and the occasional patron, and kidnap the dancers. The boxcar was nearly full by the time Wade was face-to-face with the last and biggest club on the list. The one he’s assaulted enough to be familiar with. He looks back towards the apartment he’d hid out in just the day before.

He sighs and moves his eyes back to Frank. It’s already ten-ish at night and they’ve been at this for hours. His phone has gone off nonstop with updates from his men as well as Weasel and Matt.

“Let’s get to it, Wilson.” The never changing battle face on Frank’s features was comforting. 

Guards and bouncers crumbled on the sidewalk, blood pooling on the ground from the holes in their heads before the pair rushed the club. 

Wade hoped to whatever force out there, that his little obsession was not working tonight. Hoping his assumption of Fisk keeping his prized possession at his side was true. Killing the beautiful creature he desperately wanted for himself would hurt and he really couldn’t deal with a setback right now.

Man after man, Wade had started to lose count of the kills tonight. The clubs were blurring into one, bodies forming a never ending field around him. His rationality was slipping as he stared down into an entry wound in the head of a suited man under Kingpin’s control. A mushy and gaping hole right where his eye should have been.

The hole beckoned to him. Calling out in a sly, seductive voice,  _ Come closer my child. Insert a quarter and discover your future _ .  _ I have seen it. All of it. Come, come see. Don't you want to know how you will die tonight? Blood and guts and at the hands of your greatest enemy. _

In a blur of Kevlar, Frank stormed past him to knock a patron down who was attempting to run after attacking him. He puts a bullet through the poor bastard’s leg before looking up to Wade. 

“Pull it together, Wilson.”

“Right. Sorry, Castle-”

The mobsters saw him at the same time, a familiar face darting past them and the screaming man on the ground. Their eyes lighting up and brains firing rapidly to place him. Someone mighty important caught up in a mess like this? A smirk, wide and dangerous, distorted Wade’s face while something resembling  _ smugness _ crossed Frank’s.

“LESTER!” Wade shouts, rushing towards the skittish man and tackling him to the ground. The crazed mobster’s chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath between bouts of laughter pouring out of him. Frank’s by his side immediately, knowing both men need to act quickly before the highly trained marksman can reach for anything on his person. 

Each stomping a boot down on his hands until duel wet crunches meet their ears. They watch in morbid fascination as he writhes in agony on his stomach, but refuses to scream. Trained well. 

Power is such a beautiful thing. Granting one with a feeling of invincibility and control. Wade moves back first, waiting until Frank steps away to deliver a hard kick against Lester’s ribs to roll him onto his back. The partners, with faces speckled in blood, stoop down admire the cold features of their prey. 

“I didn’t think Fisk shared his goods with anyone.”

Bullseye gives his captors a smile, red stained teeth visible in the dim lights of the club. It's as though both of his hands shattered to pieces meant nothing. “I’m not just anyone.” He spits bloody saliva at their feet, “I’m the one who’s going to end you.”

Pulling their tactical blades from their thigh sheathes, Wade returns the horrible grin to the mess of a body beneath him. “Please. Do tell us more.”

Being expertly gutted didn’t leave much room for  _ telling them more _ . He did scream finally, much to Wade’s satisfaction. They drag him across the tiled floor to the balcony, wringing his arms back and looping them through the railing. Propping him up and on display for his allies to find. 

Wade takes in the spillage of the vital abdominal organs settling into a pile on Lester’s lap. It isn't everyday one gets to gut an enemy. He doesn't have to look to Frank to know the man isn't as into the gore as he is. It's work, not pleasure. 

There is silence all around them as they consider the next course of action, where to go from here. Silence is never a good sign. 

_ Crack!  _

A bullet grazes Frank’s cheek. The man grunts as pain sears his face, blood slowly oozing from the wound. 

When they turn to face the shooter, they are shocked to find that her manicured hand gripping the glock isn't shaky. She’s completely loyal to Fisk. No doubt until the end. It’s a shared loyalty, Wade realizes as more bullets rain on them from the stage below. 

Darting away from the balcony, highly aware of the imposing threats doesn't stop Wade glaring at the woman aiming the gun at them and opening his mouth, “You really want to die for that bald fu-”

The answer comes with her finger confidently pulling the trigger back. It would be a lie if he said he felt bad for stopping her assault with a bullet of his own between her eyes.

“Back to work my Prince Charming!” Wade shouts to Frank over the new round of gunfire coming from below. 

Half of the top dollar strippers in this --Fisk’s most popular club, went down with a fight. Giving their life for a man who no doubt filled their heads with superiority and false promises only to meet a bloody end as Wade and Frank tore through the main floor. 

The idea of their unwavering devotion doesn’t settle well with Wade.  _ Would Peter have fought me? Would he have been loyal to Fisk until the end? Am I... going to have to kill him? _ He can’t dwell on it. Not when this part of the plan is so close to being checked off his list.

A sense of relief floods both of the men when they forcefully file the remaining dancers out at gunpoint. Shoving them into the cowering bodies of other dancers packed in the boxcar.  How anticlimactic it would have been if Fisk had been here now. A huff of frustration escapes Wade as he hastily slides the boxcar door down for the last and final time.

It's Frank who decides to talk for the first time in a while. "Now what?" 

“We need to get them to the safe house until this is over. Whether they decide to work for me is up to them.” 

He walks to the driver’s side door, followed closely by Frank, and glares at Bob. The shifty little man nods and leans over the seat to pull out two giant duffle bags that he hands to his leader. 

“Good boy,” Wade coos, “Get them home.” 

They watch him leave from their spot on the street. The nagging in Wade’s messy mind won't shut off as the tail lights disappear. There's something off and for the life of him, he can't place it. Later. He will deal with it later. For now, his calloused hand claps down Frank’s shoulder as he smirks, “We got some explodey weapons to build, Franky, my boy.”

His face says it all, excitement. "What kind?" 

“Shaped charge, baby.” 

Castle’s demeanor changes to match his expression, accepting one of the bags from Wade. Explosives are every militant’s wet dream. "Where are we using it?" 

Wade looks through the bag. Considering the amount of liquids and casings. “I have enough materials for two. So, his empire building and his armory.” 

"Civilian life?" 

“I'm not entirely heartless. I have a special little group going around taking care of it. Then I'm shooting that mother fucker Fisk in the head, and fucking the brain hole. But I need someone present. Anyways. One step at a time. Come on.” He motions for them to head back into the club. “There's no use being hoodlums and producing bombs in the street.”

After shoving everything off the desk in the head office, they slip on some gloves and pull out the chemicals delicately. 

“This is better than Christmas!” Blue eyes beam as they meet amused deep brown ones. Frank isn't going to agree with him, but he doesn't have to because Wade knows. 

 

-

 

Matt lets out a sigh. He knows he wouldn't be any use out there in the trenches, but staying here, cooped up in one of Wade's offices isn't helping either.

The sound of computer keys bounces through his ears. Making him nervous. 

“Does this look legal to you?” The subtle  _ swoosh _ of paper cutting through still air tells Matt that Jack's holding something in front of him. Something to read. 

“Can't see, Jack.” 

“...shit. You're right.” 

Jack leans across the desk and flips the switch to the lamp. Light pouring into the darkened office room only previous illuminated by four computer screens. "There ya go."   
  
"We've been through this-" Matt speaks clearly, softly, despite his growing frustration with the man he's stuck with.    
  
"Alright, listen. You don't have to keep up the shtick. I get it. Free drinks, easy ass, loads of pity. Been there done that. So unless you're trying to seduce me, and believe me... it wouldn't take much. You are a gorgeous man. Like, I wouldn't even need dinner to let you mount this supple body of mine, but enough is enough."    
  
His jaw clenches as Weasel rambles, understanding perfectly how Wade can call this man his friend. As much as he wants to grab him by his no-doubt- greasy hair, he smiles instead. Considering the musings of a crazed mind. "It's not a shtick though. I’m incapable of seeing anything. Can’t control that...”    
  
"Right. Right. Well. The paper is blank anyway. So. Prepare yourself for the greatest John Wayne impression you'll ever hear." He clears his throat, "sector two of-"   
  
Matt digs his tongue against his cheek and gum. The idiot prattling on didn't even change his voice, but he forces himself to listen anyways. Weasel goes on and on and on. He’s fairly certain this man knows more about how to get around the law than he does about upholding it. 

All sorts of lovely situations nestle into Matt’s mind as Jack starts repeating himself, who is no doubt messing with him again. If any of those situations were actually happening, he would’ve gotten a message, call, or something by now, right? He lets the anxiety build up in his stomach. Bruises on milky white, cold skin, lipstick smeared and mixed with blood, big hazel eyes unresponsive and glazed over. 

Jesus Christ, Wade just had to piss off  _ this _ mobster. The most dangerous in New York, the one who could ruin his life if he got angry enough. And what would Matt do if Peter was caught in the crossfire? He was helpless. He needed Wade to not fuck this up. 

“You could at least pretend you’re listening.” 

Matt gets knocked out of his thoughts. “Sounds fine. You’re legally airtight. Morally defunct but...” 

  
"Morally defunct? I take offense to that you sad little duck.” He can tell Weasel is pointing a finger at him. 

“Duck?” 

But Weasel isn't listening. “Morality isn't about right or wrong. It's about gain. Everyone warps morals to fit into their wants and needs. Personal gain, my friend.” 

“I’m not your friend.” He hears the door knob being turned, the air shifting as another body enters the room. The smell is enough to alert Matt that something is off. Cheap liquor, hand rolled cigarettes, unwashed teeth...Immediately his back tenses. 

“Wanna know what's defunct? Society and thinking there's such a thing as morals. Know what’s not defunct? Your sight. Speaking of sight... Bob you're damaging mine."   
  


"You're missing the point, Weas. Personal gain is achieved by exploiting the desires of others. That's where morals get in the way. Morals... are obsolete in the world we live in fellas." 

He sounds like he’s laughing at his own joke. No one else can see the punchline but him. It sends an unpleasant chill up Matt’s spine. 

“See,” Bob continues, his voice winding through the room, “I’d like to think of myself as an opportunist. I see a door open, I go to it. If there's a chance to get on the winning side, I’ll take it. Quite frankly, I’d think you’d both do the same.” 

He leans into Matt’s face and the blind man nearly gags, “You're here, right? Covering up smudges and cracks so Deadpool doesn't get locked up. Why? Morally upright people don't erase evidence like this. Hell, they don't get involved with gang wars at all. So why are you here?” 

Matt smiles, “I owe him one,” And it isn't a lie. Not entirely.

Bob barks out a laugh. A pen hits paper, the sound of long drawn out scribble. A signature. Wood creaks as Bob sits on the edge of the desk. “Rest my fucking case.” 

“Ew. Get your pale bony ass off the desk, Bobby, I have actual work to do.” Weasel comically scrunches up his nose.

“Finished hauling the cattle, thought I'd come over and check on you.” Bob’s flippant, like this is nothing. 

A knot formed in Matt’s stomach. Cattle? Hauled off to where? But Jack is already continuing the conversation before the attorney can fully process the bits of information volleyed between them.

“That's sweet, now go. This requires concentration, and your fugly mug leering at me is making that hard.” 

But Bob seemed certain he was gonna stay where he was. His body shifted, the wood whining again as he made himself comfortable. “I hafta talk to you. About something private.” 

Weasel snorted, “No, I won’t have a threesome with you and Gayle.” 

“It’s about Fisk.” He’s urgent now, almost irritated. 

“Great. You can add to this riveting discussion.” 

“Could you stop being a smart ass for a second?” There was such desperation in his voice, Matt almost felt bad for being there. Almost. “This is serious.” 

Matt didn’t trust this guy as far as he could throw him. As much as Weasel grated on his nerves, he didn’t want to see him get hurt. He can tell, by the unusual silence, that Jack didn’t trust him either. 

“Alright Ray Charles, you can hang up the glasses for tonight. Everything is in tip top shape and I need to talk to my side piece.” Weasel’s tone was dismissive, but almost forced in it's drawl.

“Who’s your main piece?” Matt asked out of morbid curiosity and to keep himself planted in this room. 

“Wade,” He can hear the fabric of Jack’s jacket rustle as he shrugs, “Go on home so you can take your contacts out or whatever it is you guys do.” 

“Jack-” 

“He said go,” That’s from Bob. A growl, a test. Matt almost wants to be defiant. But knowing Jack for what little time he has, he feels like he’ll take it as an insult.

“Call me if you need anything,” He lingers still, hands on the door knob until Jack’s breathe evens out, when the panic in the smaller man dissipates. 

When he leaves the office, he has a destination in mind. His mind refusing to rest until he knows Peter’s alive and unbroken. He calls for a taxi and gives them Peter’s address. If he wasn’t there, Matt’s options were pretty limited. He could only hope he was home, not out in the fray with his...daddy. He let’s out a sigh as his head hit the seat. 

He could only pray it would all be over soon, and that  _ he _ was on the winning side. 

 

-

 

Two hours of playing with dangerous materials, Wade is a buzzing child with his new toys tucked safely in the bags under his arms. Frank seems hesitant to trust his promise of protecting civilian life. In a way, Wade feels bad for putting that sort of pressure on one of his only friends, but not bad enough to stop. 

One of the Punisher’s trusted men pulls up alongside the hellions before Wade even has to ask when they are heading out. He spares one last glance up at the apartment window he had snuck through to take shelter yesterday. 

The small sassy creature, dolled up in make-up and a dress, on his mind for most of the night. There was just something about him, something of a kindred notion. If he rid New York City and the world of Fisk, maybe he could have Peter to himself. Wade shook his head and climbed into the backseat, the driver taking off the moment the door closed. 

He has to stay focused. There will be plenty of time to worry about all of this later. 

It's unsurprising that the streets are mostly cleared after the mess he and Frank made. No signs of police which means Murdock did his job, and little to no signs of civilians means his men did theirs. His mission may not be over, but Wade feels good about what he's accomplished. He actually enjoys the drive to the first destination. 

The warehouse is in the industrial park on the outskirts of Hell's Kitchen. A guarantee of no life especially in the early hours of morning. Set-up is smooth and the detonation ‘goes off’ without a hitch. No matter how hard he laughed at his joke, Frank just would not laugh with him. Wade gave up about halfway to the skyscraper, calling Jack to fill the whirring silence before unwanted mental backlash began. 

_ You're going to die. You’ve really done it this time.  _ Another voice, distinctly male, familiar anger. He was always angry.

Wade sighs into the receiver of his phone as he waits for his friend to pick up. It was important for him to hear Jack’s voice. Not only did he need visual confirmation on Fisk, but he needed the reminder of someone always watching his back. 

Weasel’s voice cuts through the low murmur of mental berating, “Building is clear.” 

With a furrowed brow at the oddness in his friend’s tone, Wade runs his fingers through his hair. He should ask if something is wrong, but the tower is in sight. “You can’t find him?”

He’s met with silence. Odd for his friend, but still, Wade doesn't push. “Alright. Keep me posted.”

“I don’t know what you expect.” Frank mumbles from the passenger seat after Wade pulls the phone away from his ear. 

“I have to kill this bastard, Frank.” Their eyes meet briefly before Frank cedes with his trademark ‘whatever you say’ face.

In a desperate need for comfort, Wade runs his fingers over the nylon material housing the remaining heavy, sharp charged, and explosive weapon. 

_ It should rain. Doesn't it rain to signify a bound to fail plan? You poor mama’s boy. You really think this won't fail.  _ The softer more feminine voice was just as bad as the angry one. She was never mean, but here in the confines of his thoughts...she was.

In his experience, Wade has learned to ignore the negativity running through his mind when he isn't alone. It's easier to ignore when there's something to distract him. Like blowing up his enemies building. This building, the one they are stalking towards as the driver finds an area to safely tuck into.

Armed to the teeth, the duo run in through the service area and move down to the maintenance.  level. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead in the vacant all white room lined with lockers, machines, pipes, and the sought after boiler. The one thing they didn’t find yet was goons.

He should be more worried, but he isn’t. Not when he’s so close to the finish line. Wade skids to a halt in front of the giant boiler, eyes running up it before looking back at Frank.

“Shut off the valves while I hook it up.”

His partner nods while he rushes to do as ordered. “Are there civilians here?”

“Gang bangers and mobsters count as civilians?” He doesn’t look at Frank as he responds, hyper-focused on getting this set up properly. Detonation is important, this tower  _ has _ to go down and every goon needs to go with it.

“I guess not.” It’s a mumble quickly swallowed by the sounds of valves creaking as they close under Frank’s control. 

He backs up from his station just before Wade does the same. It gives Frank another opportunity to truly look at his friend. There’s a tremor to his actions that the man himself is no doubt unaware of. He holds back a sigh as Wade smiles widely in admiration of his work. He has a horrible gut feeling that the ending to this is going to be messy no matter the winner. Wade, his horribly damaged friend, looks close to a break in reality. 

No words are needed for Frank to turn and follow Wade as he rushes towards the exits. The echo of metal against metal stills the duo as the large metal doors are kicked open by a large horde of beefy and strapped goons. 

No wonder they didn’t see any when they entered. The horde was assembling. It’s so quick, the switch from calm to attack mode. Both men charging the goons with fists and assault rifles. 

Time is limited with the valves shut off. It wouldn’t take long for the boiler to heat up and it wouldn’t wait for them to be ready.  And Wade wanted to be ready, wanted to keep his promise to his wife. Frank would live, Frank would be returned. 

In the heat of the moment though, Wade was living for this level of hand to hand combat and gun battle. He wasn’t about to pass up on it, even with a promise that large hanging over him. There’s just something about blood pouring onto the floor and spraying on one’s face. It’s just so intimate. A trinket of sorts. A token of love. He smiles even as a bullet lodged in his right shoulder. Just another trinket for the cause. 

Twenty to two, the lone duo still manages to get all of them down with only minor wounds. Another small victory to boost Wade’s ego, even as the crazed man’s blood starts slowly dripping onto the cement floor.  

The moment he wobbles Frank is by his side, hooking his arm around Wade’s waist. With his face bloodied from his broken nose and lacerated eyebrow, Frank’s grunting through the pain as he helps Wade get back to the car. 

Wade lulls his head back to look up at Frank, admiring his strength and sounding so small, “I’m sorry your face is fucked up.” 

Frank huffs and ignores the bout of childlike attitude coming off Wade, “Nessa will take care of it.” 

The thought is comforting for Wade until he shifts in the backseat Frank has shoved him into. A searing pain in his shoulder, head pounding from blood loss.

There's bullet still lodged in his shoulder and he groans at the thought of having to dig it out. He pulls out his phone as they peel out instead. Anger flares through him as Jack picks up, unable to control himself. He was supposed to call Wade, supposed to be telling him where Fisk is.

“I need to know where the fuck he is now!”  

Again, Weasel answers with his weird tone. “I can’t find Fisk. Wade, I need you to wait 10 minutes before pressing the detonator. Call me when it’s done.”

_ Click. _

Shock runs through Wade as he pulls his phone away from his ear. His best friend just hung up on him. He should be more worried than shocked, but he can’t be anything properly with his brain screaming at him to stop the pain in his shoulder.

He wants to throw his phone, stomp it to pieces, but he can’t. He has to set a timer. The moment it’s set he rips his shirt off, hissing out while trying to get it off. Frank tosses forceps to him and keeps his eyes on him briefly. “You good?”

Wade swallows down the rising feeling of nausea and nods as he starts digging the forceps into the wound. Going off feel not sight, Wade breathes through the slow process. This would be so much easier if he wasn’t in the backseat. Sticky warmth starts running down his bare chest when he shifts the tool tip. Frank’s eyes are on him again for some reason, remaining glued to him until the bullet is out.

Several deep breaths and shivers later he’s handed a self adhesive medical bandage. In his blurry state of mind he can hear other packages of bandages being ripped open. Frank. Tending his own wounds. Good. He’s safe. Promise being kept. Wade slaps the bandage on and pulls his shirt back over his torso gingerly. 

He looks down at the timer that goes in and out of focus. Five seconds left. 

Frank holds up the detonator and looks back at Wade again, "You want the pleasure?" 

“No.” Wade inhales sharply, voice distant. “I'm killing Fisk. You take this one.” 

Frank just nods, not as happy as Wade expected him to be. There’s a slight slur to Wade’s voice as he counts down with the timer out loud. At zero, a sound loud enough to hear even as far away as the men are now nearly startles him. The shocks are greater than earthquakes. Managing to turn his head, Wade sees the smoke billowing up into the dark sky. He’d smile if he wasn’t so tired because it’s absolutely beautiful. 

He lets out a long exhale to relax. It's one in the morning and he has not slept but maybe two hours in the past thirty-six hours. And it’s hitting him hard as he lays his head back. “Frank...”

Frank quickly turns his head to look at Wade in the backseat.

“Call Matt and Jack. I need...”  He trails off, eyes closing as he does.  _ I need sleep _ . His mind supplies the thought and he can’t help agreeing. Sleep sounds better than help with this take down.

"Wade.” 

When he doesn’t answer, Frank rushes over the center console to slap at Wade’s cheek. A weak pulse thrums against his fingers prodding at the scarred neck. “Wade. Wade! Wake up!"  

Colors blur and fade into black while Wade passes between conscious states. He’s content with sleep, he hasn’t actually felt this tired in such a long time. A sound, similar to that of the explosion erupts around him and he should care. He does care. He should wake up, but he just cannot make his eyes open. He swears he manages at some point, but Frank’s nowhere in sight. Maybe he went for help. That’s good. 

A fleeting vision of being dragged out of the car isn’t. Incoherent bursts of angry shouting, and several gunshots. That’s definitely not good. He has to move, has to get out of the things now squeezing his body tightly. He’s not going to a hospital. They can’t take him. Whoever they are.  

Wade thinks he remembers a shimmery bald head above him and a wicked smile. That smile melting into a professional greeting. He definitely remembers that, because he hates that voice and the vile way it invades his brain.

 

_ “Hello Mr. Wilson.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!!! Death & Nun here! This is our precious second child and much like it's older sibling it will be updated tortuously slow. T_T We promise it's not intentional. This fic has ruined our lives. If you're here reading this... just know that we cannot thank you enough! This is technically part 1/2 of the war scene. Part 2 is nearing it's completion and should be up in your face soon... Hopefully!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! :'D


	3. And Stainless Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*  
> Explicit depictions of gang war related violence and death.  
> Explicit depictions of torture, mental instability and drug use.
> 
> Worth mentioning that there is horrible health choices and injury care.

He was mad. It took a lot to get him this mad. He wondered though,  _ why am I even mad? _

“Wake up, you fat greasy fuck.” 

The realization hits Weasel as hard as the wave of nausea.  _ Bob. _ Bob was the reason he was so mad. A smidgen of that anger was towards Wade, but this wasn’t the time to evaluate that thought. His wrists were burning, so was his temple. The smell of decay, fitting to the man who lived here, was strong and not helping his nausea in the slightest. “Name calling, really? What’re you? Five?”

Bob’s in his face again, making Weasel press back into the chair he was bound to. His breath reeking of rotten food and tobacco. Jack wasn’t about to show any sort of weakness or fear. Not when his best friend was being betrayed by the man pressing something pointy against his neck. “I don’t think you understand the position you’re in, Jacky.”

“You’re trying to get me into a position? So kinky, Bobby.” He coughs out a laugh, “I don’t think you could handle all this, honey.”

There was a moment where all Jack could hear was the thrum of his heart and angered breathing of the man in front of him. It didn’t last nearly as long as he hoped. A searing and crushing pain in his gut was all he could focus on now as  his breath shot out of him.

“Shut up!” Bob pulled back and ran his hand over his mouth, pacing in his spot before Weasel. “Both you stupid fucks talk too damn much. Goddamnit.”

He pulled out his phone while the man tied to the chair struggled to control his breathing. There was a schedule and one order to follow. No news meant he had to stall.

“I’m all about pillow talk.” Jack stilled when Bob faced him. He knows where all of this was headed. He knows he wasn’t about to get out of this one. Not if what Bob said about Wade was true. “So tell me, sweetums. Why would you go against Wade? Again.”

“Because Wade’s on the losing side. Because Rome is falling, and being sold piecemeal to the highest bidder.” Bob smiles at him, his teeth a murky shade of butter yellow. “Wade’s little nympho has already slit his throat by now.”

He didn’t want to believe Bob. It was hard to actually. Wade wasn’t that easy to kill. It’s a fact that’s been proven again and again. That little obsession of his though? If he was really there, standing before Wade and made to kill him, he thinks Wade would gladly let him. He’s never seen his friend so obsessed with someone.  “What am I then? A treat that Fisk dangled in front of you? You don’t have the balls to actually kill me.”

There wasn’t silence this time. A boot was meeting his chest, effectively knocking him and the chair back. His shoulders ached, his hands ached, his chest ached. 

“I really wanted to take Wade out myself. Claim victory over something no one has been able to do, but you will do. Because destroying you-” Bob stoops down and rubs at his nose, briefly hiding the twisted smile on his face. “-means truly destroying that prick’s empire. His plans and assets all wrapped up in you. He wouldn’t trust anyone else with them.”

He slaps at Jack’s face almost playfully, “Believe me. This will be just as rewarding.”

 

_ 

 

The people of New York are her people. It’s her home and she would do anything for it. So when Deadpool put her in charge of maintaining civilian life she couldn’t have been happier. It is one of the easier jobs after all, that’s what Doreen kept telling herself. 

She wasn’t nervous. She wasn’t scared. Lying to people for their own protection is justified. She was doing her part. The six people with her were as good as family. All people working for the same cause Deadpool pitched to them. None of them even considered themselves part of a gang really. Just a cause.

Two of her best friends, ‘Monkey Joe’ and ‘Tippy-Toe’, even decided to help her with this. Proud youths looking to rid the city of evil. The group was feeling good, having cleared numerous apartment buildings and small businesses around Kingpin’s tower under the guise of needing to evacuate because of a gas leak.

“Alright guys. I’m gonna check in with everyone else. Hang tight!” She smiled brightly, gaining a smile from everyone in return before she wandered towards the back alley of the small sub shop in Hell’s Kitchen. The door swings shut behind her, the smell of garbage in the stale night air assaulting her senses. Not that it will get her down. Nothing can.

That lack of fear shone bright as she spoke through the headset. “Ben, you got the handle on the industrial park?” 

Ben Grimm’s fatherly voice responded, “Code via comm, Squirrel.” 

“ _ Thing _ , you got the handle on the industrial park?”

“Affirmative. It’s empty. I think there’s been a tip running through the city.”   
  
“Three of four buildings cleared, Squirrel.” Eugene Patilio cuts in without being asked. 

Doreen lets out a relieved sigh, “Good work, Frog. Toad?”

“No fair. I got five buildings.” The whiney voice of Mortimer Toynbee nearly has everyone ripping their head piece out. He’d been given a chance to work for the cause despite his crooked spine. “One cleared. Deadpool is a prick. And these jumpsuits are itchy!”

Doreen straightens her posture and stolen city worker jumpsuit, even though none of the men on her line can see. That’s not the point. “Deadpool doesn’t see deformity, be proud he gave you more work instead of pitying you.”

All fall silent, except for Eugene, “What’s up Toad! You just got told off by mama Squirrel.”

“Get back to me when you’ve-” The door behind Doreen opens, making her whip around. Expecting to see Joe or Tippie-Toe, she’s startled when it’s a very professional looking man. “Oh.. Hello Sir! We are currently evacuating the area due to-” 

“Squirrel?” Ben pressed urgently, waiting for a response when the line went staticky.

“Squirrel?” This time Eugene chimed in.   
  
“Shit. What happened? Frog, are you close to them?”

“No! Thing... what if...”

“Calm down. Just give her a minute.”

She glares up at the man standing in the doorway to the business. Her headset held tightly in his hand. “That’s extremely rude.”

A second man stepped out of the door. Blood clung to his suit like gems because of the material it was made of. Neither man spoke, choosing to just watch Doreen like she were a caged animal.

Fear, the one thing she had been going strongly without, started to creep into her mind. Blood, suits, and very eerie silence? She swallowed thickly, “Who are you with?”

“That’s refreshing.” 

Her eyebrows furrow because that didn’t come from either of the men standing in front of her. She startles when the men part to reveal a robust man with a very shiny and tan head. Doreen’s heart nearly stopped when she realized he too had a hint of red speckles on his face.

“I do enjoy when someone can ask the right questions. They are with me, darling. I assume they-” he steps to the side so Doreen can look into the hallway leading into the kitchen. Red. So much red. So many pieces instead of solid bodies. Her jaw drops, eyes widen, and features reveal just how young she is. “-were with you?” 

“Wh-” She looks up at him, knowing who he was the moment he spoke, but now she knows for sure. This is the bastard she was supposed to be helping Deadpool take down. Instead, she was face to face with him. Face to face with putrid death. “Yes.” 

“I do appreciate honesty. Look at you. Such a fine young woman. It’s too bad you’re standing on the wrong side of this...” He inhales slowly, as if savoring the terror coming off of his caged animal. “Tantrum.”

The goon to the left holds out gloves for his boss to take. “It really is disappointing when children throw temper tantrums after you set down strict rules for them. I’m fair though, Ms. Green. I gave Wade a chance to play nicely and follow the rules.”

He slips the black leather gloves on with precision and ease before lacing his fingers at his chest and giving her a thoughtful look. “See, we are currently in the middle of situation where time is of the essence. You’re young friends in there? They were all quick to try and stop us from entering property I own.”

Fisk takes a step forward, stepping right into Doreen’s space and gently cupping her chin. “I’ll make this as painless as possible if you tell me where I can find Deadpool and his companions.”

Eugene, Mortimer, and Ben all looked down at their phones as they chimed in unison. From the link sent to their phones they could see Wilson Fisk smiling towards the camera recording him live. Just behind him stands Doreen, being held by two men the bulky size of Ben. Her face already bloody, shoulders twisted in ways body parts shouldn’t be twisted, and the dead look of someone prepared to disassociate distorts her features.

“Fisk! You son of a bitch! Let her go!” No matter how loud Ben yelled into the receiver he could still hear the sound of Mortimer gagging. The sight of someone so young being broken and ready to die burned into their brains.

A snap, a thud. 

It’s almost a relief that Fisk would give her that much. 

“Take this as a warning, friends,” He laughs, a low, deep sound that resonates through all of them, “You shouldn’t play with other people’s toys without permission.” 

 

-

 

Fisk told him to stay home, so he did. This was war, not a place for a piece of arm candy. Peter was made to be an ornament, not a soldier. So he lays on his couch, staring up at the ceiling with his thoughts as his only company. 

It's two in the morning and all he can think about is how pissed Wilson is going to be. What Wade’s corpse is going to look like. Fisk never missed a target. Not in the three years Peter knew him. 

He thinks maybe, his forbidden lover will be strung up for the world to see in one of his clubs. Maybe tear his body to pieces and spread the remains through New York, like a morbid jigsaw puzzle. 

Or maybe the punishment should fit his crime of never shutting up.. 

Rip out his tongue and make him eat it. Sew his mouth shut. Tear off his fingernails just to see him cry then flay him alive. Shooting him execution style was an option, but it was never the end Fisk used for those who angered him. 

Peter let out a sharp exhale as his mind wandered onto a new train of thought. He’d just turned old enough to legally drink. The idea struck him as an ironic concept. He’d done so much worse in his life, but praise the Holy Father he was able to ‘ _ drink without getting carded at the clubs he worked in _ .’ Ugh. 

The anxiety of this “war” was getting to him in ways others didn’t. Some part of him, small and fragile in nature, wanted Wade to win. Or at the very least survive. It wasn’t smart of him to think like that, but-

He groans audibly and forces himself up to go to the kitchen. His nerves were shot. He had just the thing for that. 

He pours himself a glass of red wine and opens a cabinet, taking out a bottle of pills. The name on the prescription wasn’t his. But he would thank Stan Lee none the less for his contribution. And William Graham Lecter. Robert Smalls. Leslie Wyatt- and anyone else who’s scripts and pills he kept in a cabinet where most people kept Tupperware.

Besides the high, he thinks he must love Xanax because of the colors. They were monsters in Easter dresses. Peach, yellow, white, and mint green. They were pretty pills designed to look alluring. He dishes out the lowest dose, 0.5mg , five round peach pills in the palm of his hand. 

Before he can even think of swallowing them, there’s a knock at the door. A swarm of possibilities runs through his mind. He nudges the precious pills back into the bottle, promising them his return. If it is who he think he is, he can’t be slurring his words and looking a mess. He takes a swig of his wine. Liquid courage. “I’m coming, hold on.” 

He fully expects something awful on the other side. Fisk, angry but victorious, here to collect the pet that caused this discord. One of Wade’s men, or the guy he’s supposedly working with.

Peter’s head is still spinning with possibilities when he unlocks the door. His voice wavers, “Matty!” 

He wraps his arms around him and hugs him tightly. He smells like the outside, like New York at night. A cold, sharp, metallic bite to damp wind. He pulls him in. Matt takes his face into his hands, running his thumbs over Peter’s cheeks, just under his eyes.

“Are you okay?” He leans down so their foreheads are touching, “No one’s looking for you?” 

“Not that I know of. Jesus Christ, I missed you...” 

Matt's lips ghost over his nose, “Was worried sick about you.” 

Peter leads him to the couch, “You should come to see me more often, then. You'd know if I’m alive.” 

Matt's quiet as Peter settles in beside him. He places his hand over the blind man’s, regretting his choice of bright red nail polish. It seemed too violent now. Too reminiscent of fresh blood. 

"They're gonna kill him." Matt says with no preamble. 

“They're planning on killing him. But they won't. He’s been running New York for decades. He won't kneel to some loud, angry assholes with army guns.” 

Matt's fingers run through his hair. Never pulling, just feeling the silken texture against his fingers. “You don't know Wade Wilson like I do.” 

“I know him enough.” 

A spiteful smile tugs at Matt’s lips. “Oh, I know. Wade didn't stop talking about it. I got to hear in excruciating detail how he fucked you. Never mentioned your name but I knew who he was talking about.” 

“Don't say fuck. Doesn't sound right coming out of your mouth.” He moves to be more settled in Matt's lap.

He couldn't see, but he still had memories of what the world looked like when he could. 

He guides Matt's hands to his face. Sighs when he feels his thumb move across his lips. Fingers ghosting gently across his eyelids. Fingertips moving against his jaw. 

“You're still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Matt kisses the side of his mouth, “You don't have to do this anymore.” 

Peter chuckles softly, “Are you supposing we run away together?” 

“I’d find a way.” He lets himself be laid down on the couch, staring up his lover and wishing the gaze could be returned. 

Peter nuzzles the cheek next to his, Matt’s mouth on his neck as gently as ever. He tilts Matt's chin up and kisses him. He can feel Matt melting, the tension in his bones leaving. A familiar place, a warm place. His lips part and his tongue runs along Peter's bottom lip. There's a certain bitter taste in his kiss, a sadness in being touched. He unbuttons Matt’s shirt and let’s his hands move up his chest. Familiar flesh that he hasn’t felt in so long. Too long. 

Matt settles between his legs, pressing himself against thin material of his pajama shorts. He sighs, let’s his nails run up Matt’s neck while he kisses his collarbones again. 

“So glad you’re okay...so glad you’re alive.” Matt whispers against his skin. He’s trying to devour the smaller man, inhaling his scent and tasting his skin. Matt needs to feel him. He knows that in order for the blind man to communicate, it has to be through touch. 

Peter moans quietly, let’s himself by claimed by Matt’s lips, teeth, and tongue. His head lolls back onto the seat of the couch. Matt’s pull down his shorts, pressing cool fingers against smooth, soft thighs.

It’s always different than it was with every man he’d been with. The intense need to tear into him, to rip him to pieces wasn’t there. Not with Matt. It was slow, like sugar dissolving in water. Just as sweet. It made him feel whole. No one else could do that for him. No one else cared enough to know exactly what he needed. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says softly as he wraps his legs around Matt’s waist, “I’m so sorry.” 

The blind man brushes his lips against Peter’s hairline as he pulls his fingers out. He pushes inside and Peter whines. A full body shudder runs through him, makes him cry out. He grabs at the shoulders above as fingers run through his hair. “Matt...” 

Love and sex. They are so different but it’s so easy to confuse the two, Peter found. He could fuck as many people as humanly possible, but it didn’t matter. That wasn’t love. 

Love was the feeling everyone chased. The high that people tried to find in other human bodies, trying them on like clothes.

Wade creeped into his head. The mobster who was hell-bent on watching him suffer. Wade would probably kill him before he’d ever go slow like this. He was the embodiment of the big bad wolf. Unpredictable. Abrasive. A predator who would lick the blood off his teeth while staring down at Peter’s mutilated body. 

It wasn’t like this, the same soul split into two bodies. 

The afterglow as sweet as the build up. Peter lets out a soft sigh and moves his hands up Matt’s neck, “You don’t have to go yet.”

“I was serious, ya know,” Matt’s cheek presses against Peter’s, voice quiet and on the edge of pleading for something he knew wouldn’t have, “About us running away.” 

Peter smiles softly, “We’d be dead before we made it out of New York.” 

Time stands still. An eternity is spent like this, skin to skin contact and slow breathing. It’s Peter’s own version of Heaven. Something he knows he can’t keep. Paradise has no room for sinners, after all. Matt gets up, starts to get dressed. Peter makes a noise of disappointment as he sits up. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I have to check up on our friend, Wade. Make sure he hasn’t set anything on fire.” Matt strokes his cheek. "Be careful. If you need me, you know where to find me.” 

He rests his hand over Matt’s and leans up to kiss the man dressed and hesitating to leave. “I’ll let you know if I change my mind. But... if I make a mistake, it's my own.” He squeezes the hand on his cheek, “Call me later?” 

He nods, his hands lingers on Peter’s cheeks until he has to go. Peter thinks he can feel his heart actually break. 

It's nearly fifteen minutes later when he hears another knock, but when he opens the door again it isn't a welcome face. Two men stand in his doorframe, dressed head to toe in black. 

“Good evening, Babydoll,” Impeccable manners as always from Fisk’s toy soldiers, “We have a surprise for you.” 

 

-

 

The warehouse near the docks always smelt like seawater and shit. The scent so thick, one could practically taste it. It’s one of a million, but it's Fisk’s favorite. That special place where all the magic happens. Peter, in his lacy white pajamas, stands in the middle of long dried blood and sweat and tears. Looking like he doesn’t belong and pretending to not look so horrified. Trying to coax his expression into something like annoyance. 

There in all his bloody glory slouched Wade. Bound and unconscious in a way that forced Peter to see the stupid cunt as weak and as vulnerable as Fisk wanted him. There are drugs traveling through Wade's system via IV to keep him alive, so that he can be tortured properly. Peter can feel his food threatening to make a reappearance. 

To think he actually had hope for Wade like the foolish, stupid whore that he was. Wade's eyelids start to twitch, through the thin skin, his pupil rapidly jerking. Left to right, right to left. 

His blinking is slow and forced. Trying and failing miserably to lift his head from it’s position, Wade’s eyes fixate on the machines quietly whirring behind him. 

“Oooh. Good drugs.” Wade’s voice is scratchy and slurred, foreign in his own ears. It takes a lot of effort, but he finally manages to pull his head up to look for Fisk. Wade coughs quietly when their eyes meet, “Well?” 

One of Kingpin’s goons pushes in a medical cart covered in a white sheet, metal scraping on cement echoing around them. It would have been louder if there weren’t clear tarps draped around them, a makeshift medical station in a large warehouse. Wade looks unfazed, making Peter's heart drops into his stomach.

The dancer is so sick of death, so sick of seeing blood, but he’s supposed to stay and watch. A perfect prized pet well groomed and gorgeous. A siren to lure men to their deaths. All things he never asked for. 

Wilson, just as unfazed as his captive, moves towards Peter and gently gathers a much smaller hand in his own. He tilts the petite chin back. Allowing Wade to see the beauty of  _ Fisk’s _ property. "You remember my baby doll, don't you?" 

Something warm and metallic press into Peter's hand. He doesn’t want to look at it, he doesn’t want it touching his skin. This is it. Fisk’s trusted knife thrust upon him. Peter’s shoulders twitch when the once comforting warm breath fans over his ear, "The line’s already there for you to follow, right there on his neck." 

“Wilson, I’m not like you.” Peter says softly, “I’m not a murderer...”

"You're just scared, precious. Hold on."

A massive hand folds over the trembling knuckles. Peter is shaking like a frightened dog. He can see the annoyance in Wilson’s face as he pulls him forward, closer to Wade. The bound man is staring at them with an expression Peter can’t read. Not that he’s actually paying attention, too terrified of the proposition to process anything.  “No...no. Please.” 

Tiny pleas are ignored as Wilson jerks harder on his grip of Peter, pulling the smaller man in front of him once they are by Wade’s side. Forcing the tip of the knife against the scar tissue. 

Peter’s watery eyes meet Wade’s hard blue ones staring back. A silent plea on Wade’s end to just get it over with so at least one of them can make it out of this alive. Peter’s eyes clench closed, shaking harder, “I can't do it. I can't do it!” 

Wilson leans into his ear. The grip on his wrist tightens to the point of bruising. "It's either him or you." 

A heartbeat, a skipped breath. Little dust mites dance under a naked light bulb, men in all black thirst for carnage. A frozen moment in time where it’s life or death, kill or be killed. Eyes boring into his skin for an answer, for the right answer.

His decision is reached. Peter gasps in mouthfuls of air, opening his eyes and giving Wade a resigned look as he sniffles, “Fine then. Kill me.” 

Wade swallows hard, that’s not the right answer. Everyone in the makeshift room looks visibly ready to pounce. That’s not what Wade is paying attention to though. His eyes are trained on the molten hazel eyes of the creature he had high hopes for.

It’s quick, soundless, and precise when Wilson rears Peter’s head back by his umber hair and runs the knife into his neck. 

_ Is this what dying feels like? _

It’s a millisecond before he realizes he’s been stabbed. It’s a perfect millisecond though, where everything is vivid and calm. His vision, his hearing, his sense of smell all heightened.

But then he becomes aware of the pain. His brain realizes the body sheltering it is losing blood. He can hear cursing from Wade, cooing from Fisk, but couldn’t make out real words if he wanted to. Not for the pounding in his ears. Blood pours out of the gash in his neck, soaking into his top and making it clinging to his skin. He can feel it, hot and gushing, trying to climb into his mouth. It’s all sharp and metallic, like licking a knife clean.  

He coughs and his lungs rattle as blood pours out of his mouth, down his chin. There’s no way to get air and the world is spinning. He’s dying. That’s what this is. He is being murdered and no one is moving an inch to save him.

In a desperate attempt to get air Peter gasps again, through blood and spit, as he crumbles under his weight. The world fades in and out in thin black lace. 

There’s a scrape of metal sounding off beside him, footsteps like a stampede, and much too loud shouts. He knows his eyes are open, but he can’t  _ see.  _ Everything is black and fuzzy. His own weak, shaky hands move to his throat. He has to apply pressure, stop the bleeding, but the thick, warm liquid seeps through his fingers. 

Again, with loud voices but he recognizes them this time. It’s all blurred and no words stick out, just barks. 

Gunshots. Boots stomping. Scratchy sawing at leather straps. Yelling. More yelling. Screaming. Then warm arms picking him up. Warmth that nearly burns. When had he gotten so cold? A voice, Matty’s voice, trying to get him to stay awake. “It’s alright...don’t go to sleep...it’s all gonna be okay...baby, please.” 

Existing this way is exhausting. All he wants is sleep. And if he doesn’t wake up? Well, that’s not too bad a trade, is it? He wants to tell Matt this, but it all comes out in a gurgle. Fresh blood in a weaker stream drips between his teeth. 

His head is tucked into Matt’s chest. Before he passes out, he can’t help but wonder if Wade found this display beautiful. 

 

-

 

He’d forgotten how fragile Peter was, how light he was. It made Matt’s stomach twist into knots. Such a small creature could only take so much trauma and if he died, if Peter's heart stopped-

He can hear Wade, snarling and groaning like an animal. Alive and kicking unlike the weak, shallow breathing of the man in his arms. 

“Jesus Christ! Stop fighting me!” It’s Frank snarling this time. An audible punch echoes in his chest when Wade lashes out at his friend again.

“Fuck you, Castle! I’m not going to a hospital!” He’s hissing like a rabid dog. Deranged and wild, ready to snap a neck if it meant protecting himself. 

It agitates Matt’s already shattered nerves. He straightens from setting Peter in the back seat gently, and walks over to the two men tangled with each other. He can tell from the pinpoints of sweat and adrenaline that Wade's turned himself into a barrier. Milky eyes behind red tinted glasses narrow. 

It isn't okay. He isn't thinking rationally. Neither is Wade, pumped full of god knows what. It doesn't stop him from placing his foot onto the mobster’s chest and forcing him into the passenger seat. 

“ _ Bastard! _ ” Hoarse and raspy, Wade’s gotten the wind knocked out of him. Good.

“I don't give a shit what happens to you. You could keel over in this car right now, and I wouldn't bat an eye. But if Peter winds up dead because of you...it won't be the doctors you’ll have to worry about.” Matt’s voice is quiet and emotionless, but his point is made. He can feel Frank's eyes on him, but the Punisher says nothing. 

Wade puts as much space between himself and Matt as humanly possible, curling into the passenger door like a berated child. The blind man isn't complaining, he’s too busy trying his best not to jostle Peter's head while Frank breaks every speeding law New York has ever implemented. 

He also tries not to feel Wade's eyes when the man sneaks a glance back at him or Peter. The blatant obsession with the injured man in his lap is sickening. It’s almost like he wants to reach out and touch him, but he’s too afraid. 

His teeth clenched so tightly that Matt expects them to shatter. It’s hard enough to not snap at the man in the passenger seat again, and if Wade had even breathed too close to Peter in that moment, he’d be pulling back a bloody stump. 

The hospital is a blur. Alcohol and antiseptic. Peter getting taken out of his arms. The word ‘surgery’ makes his skin crawl. A clipboard is shoved in his bloody hands, questions asked faster than he can answer them. He’s taken too, into a room. He’s poked and prodded for trauma. 

He catches himself whispering over and over. “Please be okay, please be okay.” 

 

-

 

The rescue and failed assassination attempt on Fisk’s end  _ and _ Wade’s end was enough to set the latter into an angry tailspin. Refusing medical treatment and begging Frank to drag him home while heavily drugged and injured. 

Seeing how Matt held and talked to Peter, the same Peter he wanted to own and break, didn’t help. If he had known that the beautiful little thing was a part of Matt’s life he never would have messed around with him. 

The sun hits his eyes in the passenger seat of Frank’s car. There’s no doubt in his mind that Frank is relieved to be getting him home, even if it’s a bad idea. It means he’s returning in one piece to the woman he loves. Steam forms on the cooled window Wade’s face is leaned against as he sighs. 

Frank’s eyes shift from the road to Wade huddled into himself against the passenger door. Pissed, offended, jealous, and worst of all... His friend has snapped and is splintering in his car. There’s no reason to feel guilt, so Frank doesn’t. He is however concerned for the man. Wade breaking is something the fragile hierarchy of New York can’t handle right now.

In order to prevent uncontrollable chaos, Frank will have to surrender the woman he loves to her husband for the next several days. Vanessa is one of the few people able to keep a tight leash on Wade Wilson.

A long exhale passes over Frank’s lips as he opens the car door to help Wade out. The deranged man immediately jerks away from the help, and almost falls on his face. Pride damaged and assuming he doesn’t deserve anything. 

That doesn’t stop Frank from gripping Wade’s arm tightly and hoisting him up. He should have known that getting  _ the _ Deadpool to bed wasn’t as easy as he makes it out to be. As hard as it was to get the man there, Frank watched in shock as the moment Wade hit the bed he was snoring. 

“Frank?” 

He turned to see Vanessa standing in the doorway looking between him and Wade. The hand gripping the towel to her head moves to her lips, covering her mouth as she took both of the men in. “Is he okay?”

Frank stepped back from the bed and turned to face her completely. “He didn’t want to go to the hospital.”

She nodded and furrowed her brow, it was normal for Wade to deny help. Especially at hospitals. That wasn’t why she was frowning at him, wasn’t why she looked so terrified. “Are you okay?”

After a deep breath Frank nodded. “I am now.”

The way Nessa smiled brought a smile to his own lips. She turned and nodded towards the bathroom. “Let me clean you up.”

He followed instantly, happy to please the woman who held his heart. She was stripping him the moment he stepped into the master bathroom. They’d spent several moments in here. Nessa claimed Wade never touched it. He could see why. It was literally a palace and custom made for someone. Nessa never said it was for her. Frank wouldn’t have believed her if she did.

“Wanna talk about it?” She was careful with her wording, she always was. As much as Frank appreciated it, they both knew would always tell her the truth. She guided him down to the vanity stool and set a medical kit on the counter behind him.

“I didn’t want to worry you last night. I needed to stay focused...”

She nodded, not liking where this was heading. She poured some alcohol on a piece of gauze, rolled up the sleeves to her bathrobe, and started wiping at the cuts on his face and neck.

“Wade passed out in the car after losing quite a bit of blood. It was more exhaustion than anything.” He paused and let her clean his lip. “When I crawled in the back I noticed lights to a car behind us. It struck me as odd a moment too late. It rammed us and caused us to spin out. I opened the door to roll out. It was a moment where I knew I’d need to have eyes outside of the situation. It shot me into the ditch and knocked me out.” 

She stills as she gets a new piece of gauze. Frank swallows around the lump forming in his throat and reaches up to hold her hands in his. “It was brief, bellissimo. I’m okay, I promise.”

“Okay...” Nessa nodded and waited for him to continue so she could continue cleaning all the dried blood off of him.

“When I came to there were voices and two gun shots. They killed Harmon.” Ness stroked his clean cheek when he paused again. She knows how much he hates when one of his allies dies. “When I looked they were dragging Wade out of the car and shoving him into another car. They lucked out. He was very out of it. He really should go to the doctor.”

“He won’t. I can sneak an IV? Hydrate him a bit?” He looked up at her and smiled at her suggestion.

“You’ve been taking care of him for a long time.”

“Well...” She smiled when Frank wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her bare sternum.

“You deserve to be taken care of.”

“You take care of me, baby.” She presses a kiss to his dirty hair. “I wanna take care of you, too. So, let me finish okay?”

He nods and pulls back so she can finish cleaning him up. “I told you the rest. Matt and I gathered up whoever was left of mine and Wade’s team and stormed the warehouse that Matt knew they would take him to.”

Frank looked up at her when she made a small wounded sound. There was still worry on her face, but she was being so strong. Trying to desperately hold it all together. 

He stood up and cupped her cheek. “You know.... that I will do anything and everything to return to you. I’m here. You’re here. Please, don’t be sad.”

Frank watched as she swallowed the tears as best she could. “I will always be here.”

Vanessa could taste alcohol and tears when Frank kissed her, but she didn’t care. She would never care about how they tasted. As long as he was standing here in front of her.

 

-

 

It’s been hours, probably even days. At this point, Jack can’t even tell or be bothered to care. The pressure in his chest is making breathing a chore. Blood, spit, and phlegm is all he’s consumed. Bob and his dirty fingers have touched nearly every inch of him. There have been moments between the pain where the rat would ask the weasel questions. The weasel would die with the answers and they both knew it.

“You could just tell me where his little rabbit hole is.” The flippant tone was accompanied by a gentle spray of crumbs and grease from the burger Bob was eating. He sighs when Weasel closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

“Kingpin went silent right after I got a cute warning about Castle storming the gates. Which means- I’m free to do whatever the hell I want to you.”

He looks down at his phone, throwing the wrapper to his burger behind him. Fisk hadn’t responded to any of his recent messages. The only thing he knew to do was end this and let Wade, the very alive and annoying Wade, find his dead friend.

The idiot hadn’t moved from his house in 36 hours and it was starting to grate his nerves. There was a ping on his laptop just as he was about to press send on his new message to Fisk. He looked at the screen and smirked. Wade had finally opened his phone. He knew his simple texts to Wade would set him off and he’d make himself seen sooner rather than later. Jack doesn’t need to know his friend is still alive. He doesn’t need the hope to cling to. 

He closes the laptop and shoves it in his backpack. He stands, stretches, and looks down at Jack. It was time.

 

-

 

_ Blood puddles to the floor and pale skin floats in it, fluffy brown hair soaks it up, and matching red lips smile up at Wade. He kneels in the warm fluid to touch the soft ivory skin, to feel comfort and reassurance that the body wasn’t cold. _

_ A gun fires and the shot rings in his ears, the smile is gone and so is the warmth. He wasn’t going to see his obsession again. He looks up and Fisk smirks down at him, sending his heart into rapid palpitations. His eyes catch on the barrel right in front of him, another loud shot rings in his ears.   _

Wade jolts awake in bed, breathing labored, and sweat dripping down his body. He turns his head, taking in his surroundings through the fog of his nightmare. He’s at home. He’s at home with Vanessa. The covers rustle as he reaches up to angrily scrub at his face. 

“Wade.”

He has to get out of here. The images of his nightmare still too real. Wade drags himself out of bed. 

“Wade.” 

In the bathroom, the sweaty and hollow looking man in the mirror looks as bad as Wade feels. “Shit...” 

He splashes water on his flushed face. There’s still work to be done, Fisk escaped and will no doubt seek him out. In order to avoid questions and looks from his wife, Wade rushes out of the bedroom to get his phone. It takes him a moment to find it, placed delicately on the counter and even plugged into the charger. There isn’t even a sign of bloody clothes or bandages. Vanessa must have worried over him.

He can’t think about that right now, not when there are hundreds of messages from almost everyone sitting on his home screen. Everything from news articles to emails to voicemails to texts. 

50% of his plan was executed perfectly, except for the execution itself.  _ Fisk.  _ Wade lets out an irritated growl as he swipes his finger across the screen to unlock his phone.

It’s seven in the morning, two days after the explosion and failed mission. That can’t be right- Why would Vanessa or even Frank let him sleep that long?

Mixed in the hundreds of messages, the few from Bob are what catch Wade’s attention. ‘Weasel is missing.’ 

The fire of the drugs and their withdrawal, attempting to be murdered, failing to kill a man, losing his current obsession to his only lawyer friend, all combust with the added fuel of his best friend going missing. Wade hurls his phone across the counter and into the kitchen wall. “Mother fucker! That’s it!”  

He doesn’t notice Vanessa’s eyes peering at him from the hallway as he tears open the coat closet and rips up the secret compartment under the floorboards. A quick rummage through his bags, he finds some clothes. Two glocks rest at the bottom of the bag and in that moment he’s even more pissed off. Fisk took his babies, the very first firearms he ever bought. He feels so broken. Getting dress hurts several sore muscles, but he refuses to slow down.

“Wade!” 

“What!?” He turns his head to look at the frightened face of his wife. 

Vanessa swallows thickly. She shakes her head, “You aren’t going anywhere.” 

Grabbing his back up handguns from the bag and holstering them before shoving some ammunition into the bag, “Gotta fix this. Gotta find Jack.” 

She grabs his arm, “Have you seen yourself? You aren’t in any position to even be out of bed!” 

His blood screams, his muscles burn.  _ If she doesn’t let go _ ...yet, she only seems to grab him tighter. Black hair warps into strawberry blonde, brown eyes turn blue. For an instant, a millisecond, he’s surrounded by the smell of vanilla and cinnamon. Warm, soft hands on his face. He’s nine years old and just so tired. 

_ “Everything’s gonna be okay, baby. Just go back to bed, sweetheart.” _

His heart beats harder as he back up out of the woman’s grasp. Vanessa just stares at him with wide and frightened eyes.

Wade shakes his head, mouthing something neither of them hear. He has no idea where he is going as he slings the bag over his shoulder and grabs his keys. He has to get out of here. He  _ has _ to find Jack. Weasel is brilliant, but he isn’t strong enough to survive being tortured. 

Once he’s slammed the car door closed he realizes just how much every last part of his body hurts. 

From the den, Vanessa watches her crazed husband peel out of the driveway. Her grip on her phone tightens. “Frank, He just...”

Vanessa covers her lips with her fingers, worrying them with her fingernails as she tries to gather herself. “You have to find him. He’s not okay...He just took off!”

 

-

 

It’s been two days. Matt has washed every inch of his skin multiple times now, but the smell of Peter’s blood, the feel of it congealing on his skin, doesn’t fade. He’s been a ghost. He had no body, no mind. There was nothing, except the hospital and the body curled up in thin white sheets. 

Peter’s eyes flutter open to the dim light pouring in through the hospital window. The shift in his breathing doesn’t go unnoticed. Matt straightens. 

Soft beeps, nurse chatter, and tiled ceiling. He sees Matty sitting on the edge of the bed and reaches for him. The older man moves in closer to hold his injured lover. 

His voice is hoarse, “I love you.”  

"Doctors orders. You shouldn't be speaking " 

“I don't care, let's get married.”

Matt just smiles, soothing the drugged man who has woken up twice already and said the exact same thing. This time seems to stick though. Peter stays awake to cling to his lover like the blind man will disappear. 

When the young and chipper food service attendant sets Peter’s plate on his bedside tray, Matt’s phone starts ringing. 

“Frank?”   
  


"I got word that Wade was on the move. I don't know where he's going but he was not in good shape and refused medical treatment. This is one of those situations where he will go looking for a fight hoping they kill him. Just to spite God. Murdock?" His name is a question that he doesn’t want to actually ask.

Matt chews at his lip in thought. "We have to tail him. The only Deadpool of any use is a live one. I’m still at the hospital. Stop to pick us up." 

“You aren’t taking the pet with you.” 

“You wouldn’t leave Vanessa if she was in the same situation. You’d gut anyone who would imply you should.”

“You threatening to gut me?” 

“Maybe a little.” 

Castle’s tone is resigned, “You’re lucky I have a soft spot for you, Murdock.” 

“See you in five minutes.” 

He sighs and throws a duffle at Peter, packed with the younger’s makeup bag and one of his numerous outfits.

He can hear the crinkle of the hospital gown as it slides off Peter’s body. “Jesus Matty. I love you, have I told you that already?” 

“Numerous times.”

“Fuck,” Peter hisses as he yanks the IV from his hand. The scent of fresh blood hits Matt’s nose. It makes him cringe almost, after the recent events. Peter’s makeup application is meticulous, even in the most stressful of times. He waits till he hears the final ‘click’ of the lipstick applicator closing. 

“Follow me,” He says, “We have to play it cool.” 

Stepping out into the antiseptic soaked hallway would’ve been a good idea if the two had any sort of medical experience, or a disguise, or weren’t in a rush. The sweet, bright eyed food service attendant peeked her head out the neighboring room and asked, “Are you supposed to be out of your room?” 

Peter grabbed Matt’s wrist, looked at her dead in the eyes, and said, “No.” Then he took off running toward the fire exist. 

“Hey! Come back-” 

The panicked footsteps run toward them and Peter’s nearly maniacal laughter made Matt’s heart beat twice as fast. Blood in his ears thumping nearly muting the screams of fire alarms and the hiss of sprinkles. Muddled confusion, and insane amounts of giggling. He feels the warmth of sunlight on his face, the smell of the tar of the parking lot, the exhaust from Frank’s car, waiting. 

Peter pulls him into the back seat. Breathless and panting and laughing, a near scream, “Floor it!” 

He’s back. Peter is back. 

 

-

 

Frank could be considered Wade’s keeper, one of them at least, finding the deranged man within minutes, just as he was about to walk headfirst into one of Fisk's remaining warehouses. Peter understands the severity of a deranged man on the loose, but something deeper strikes him to see Wade on autopilot and ready to fight to the death.

In a fit of emotion, he opens the car door and pulls Wade by the collar into the backseat, “You stupid cunt! What is the matter with you?!”

Frank looks back at the man who desperately needs medical attention. A low sound escapes Wade while he swats Peter’s hands off him. Not even aware of anyone besides Frank staring at him. A familiar face that is trying to sabotage him. The way his brain finally decides to just lunge at the familiar face is quick and bloodthirsty.

“I'm going to kill you if you do not let me out of this fucking car now!” 

He slams the side of Frank’s head into the window, letting off a sound like the window or his skull has cracked. Frank growls, an aggressive flash of heat rolling through him as he shoves Wade back into his seat. His able state of mind allowing him to be quicker than Wade. Hurriedly climbing over the center console to pin him to the seat. It’s not exactly an easy fit for two six-foot-two men to be struggling for dominance. 

A flurry of panic has Peter pressing his back against the door to stay clear of their struggle, eyes wide and chest heaving. Two heavily trained men, one trying to subdue the one trying to hurt him. It’s terrifying and vicious to say the least. Peter watches in horror as Frank presses his thumb into a sensitive spot on Wade’s chest. It takes a moment for him to remember the bandage in the warehouse. He cringes and looks away just as Frank finally gets the man to stop. 

The squeak of fingers on leather fills the car as Wade tries to grab at the door handle, but the intrusive thumb is right back in the wound. In another pathetic attempt to escape, Wade reaches up with his uninjured arm, but Frank is too far away for Wade to latch onto anything.

Panic widens Wade’s blue eyes when Frank produces a syringe. “You wouldn't dare!” 

He pulls the cap off with his teeth and glares down at his friend.  

“Frank.. don't you fucking dare! I have to find him! I can't let my friend die!”

The man doesn't budge, even as Wade’s features change dramatically. Actual fear playing out on his face. “I don't trust you... get off.”

Frank’s eyes harden at the innocence of those words, hyper aware of every move the man slipping into a psychotic break makes. There isn’t much room for him move, let alone kick him, like Wade is trying to do. 

As Frank’s thumb is digging again, everything becomes too loud for Wade. The seat feels like sand beneath him. It's too hot, it's so fucking hot in this place. He tries to lunge again, letting off a sound similar to that of an injured child. Soft, pleading, broken. 

Frank sways and blurs above him, the leather melts around him, his name being said is an echo in the darkness surrounding him. 

Castle looks at Peter as Wade slumps in the seat, their eyes locking in a way Frank hopes comes across as a plead. A plead to  _ watch him. _ He gently slaps Wade’s drooping face. Mumbling as he crawls back to the driver’s seat, "Idiot thinks torture won't ignite flashbacks"

He sits straight, sight pointed towards the road. The car is silent for a long dragged out moment in time. Each conscious mind feeling something completely different about what just happened. If the unspoken plan was to avoid it, they stuck to it.  

Frank rubs at his temple, frustrated with the situation and the state his friend is in. There’s a lot of guilt and pity mixed in that frustration. As Wade’s keeper he’s meant to keep this sort of thing under wraps. Not allow him to blow up in front of people who don’t understand.

He doesn’t look at anyone when he speaks,  "What's the plan Murdock?"

"Find Weasel. Hopefully alive so we don't have a repeat episode." 

 

-

 

Petite fingers absently play in Wade’s hair and when his head moves, Peter lets out a small squeak of surprise. “ Morning sunshine. You feeling okay?”

With a groan Wade sits up slowly, rubbing at his head. Everything is a bit of a rage-fueled, mushy blur. He turns his head to look at Peter. There's pain in those blue eyes while his brow furrows. A mostly forced smile spreads across his lips. “Yeah. I'm fine.” 

His eyes move towards the front of the car, looking at the shoulders of Frank and Matt. The sky is darker than before.

“Where are we heading?” 

Frank sighs and looks in the rearview at Wade. He already knows how the man will react. "Bob's.” 

"STOP THE FUCKING CAR!” Dirty fingers bunch up the back of Frank’s shirt as Wade pops over the center console again. “You didn't tell Bob where we are did you?” 

"He doesn't know we're coming.” Matt chimes in. 

“That’s the point." Castle growls as Peter coaxes the tense arms of the mobster to return to the back seat with his body.  

“Bob's been feeding information to Wilson. That’s why everything went wrong last night. He knows everything. We think he might be holding Weasel.” The dancer says softly. Wade looks back to Peter and calms slowly.

"Arms in the back." Castle adds before Wade can even say anything.  

Peter can’t help himself as he eyes Wade. Worry is barely scratching the surface of his feelings. Worried about what was in that syringe. Worried because he’s looking a little green, a little clammy. It’s why he’s sneakily checking Wade’s pulse via his wrist. Finding it sluggish doesn’t help that worry. 

It’s safe to assume that Wade won’t mind his own health. Someone has to look after the mobster, and Peter's been accidentally given the role. If he’s being honest, he did try to sacrifice himself for Wade. He sighs as the wound of his neck throbs from the memory. 

_ Me or him and I choose him. The greater good? Or maybe I was just tired of living. _

“Wade, are you feeling okay, seriously?” Peter asks softly.

Wade takes his sweet time to process the question, the world is spinning out of control literally and figuratively around him. Everything he’s worked for has been shattered by the only guy he’s given a second chance too.  He swallows the rising bile in his throat at the thought of Bob,  “I'm gonna be sick.”

It’s a little late for changing his mind, Wade knows this now. He should have sought medical attention after being heavily drugged, or starved, or not gotten out of bed.  It’s slow to pass, the overwhelming urge to vomit, but with the help of rubbing his own head it does. Talking to no one in particular, Wade mumbles,  “Goddamnit. Why did I trust him again...”

A fleeting thought crosses his mind, maybe Frank will believe him. He needs out of this car. He needs to purge himself of overwhelming emotions and shame. He  _ knows _ that Frank won’t fall for it even as it leaves his lips, “I'm gonna throw up in your car, Frank. Pull over.” 

Narrowed brown eyes peer at him from the rearview mirror, before returning to the road, "I'll give you a bag, Wade. I know you. You'll run." 

“You give me a bag and I'll make myself inhale the vomit. I need out of this car.” 

"Just because you made a mistake doesn't mean-" 

“ **A** mistake?! I fucked up the whole plan by trusting the guy who fucked me over last time!” 

"I will sedate you again, Wade. Even if your body can't handle it. You need to chill out so I don't have to kill you." 

A glare standoff in the rear view mirror. Wade finally falters, giving a look to his friend and  falters further when all he gets is a head shake.

Unable to leave the car doesn’t provide many options for him, so Wade takes a moment. Attempting to calming himself as much as he can before looking at Peter. Very slowly, he shifts his body to be closer to the petite man until he can lean into his ear. “We’re even.” 

He rests his head down on the small lap and faces the front seats as he does. He’s going to cry and he really doesn't want to. Especially not in front of the very person he was determined to break like this.

“Shhhh.” A soft and comforting voice directed only towards him. In a knee jerk reaction to someone hurting, Peter’s fingers find a way into the messy blonde hair in his lap. Stroking absently, and humming softly. 

A sigh passes through his stained lips. His entire body throbbing with weakness and fatigue. Peter really just wants a nice quiet place to get away from this mess. He knows that’s not about to happen though. Not after everything that has happened this week. His eyes move across the broad shoulders and expansive back below him. The softness never leaving his calm yet tired voice, “We're gonna find Weasel. Alive. And everything will be okay.” 

"Don't make promises you can't keep." It’s said so gravely, so matter of fact, so typical of Frank. Peter’s eyes dart up to glare back at the man driving.

A strange content noise escapes Wade as he closes his eyes and listens to the quieted hum of the road below them. Guiltily enjoying the gentle touches to his head, even if they are forced. It’s confusing to be treated in such a way. He knows deep down that he won’t have the things he wants with the beautiful thing petting him. 

He wanted to own him, maybe even a little more. Whatever that meant, but those plans were all fucked up. His plans. His faith. Fisk is alive, Bob is a traitor, and Weasel is dead. If there was a God, he has forsaken Wade at this point. He’s accepted that.

The drive doesn’t continue nearly long enough for Wade to feel any better. He opens his eyes as they park a block away from their destination to find that Frank is turned and looking at him. "Can I trust you to behave Wade?" 

“Do you have any food?” 

The man doesn't miss a beat, tossing his friend some horrid protein bar before he looks to Matt. "You and I will head up. You're the least threatening. Peter, you can either hang out here or come with Wade once he heads our way. Leave in ten, Wade." 

The silence is practically deafening once the driver and passenger door close. Wade watches the two men trek towards Bob's apartment. Matt is one of those guys everyone strives to be and Wade hates him for it. Hates that Peter chose to be with someone so simple when the beautiful man is everything but. 

He eats quickly in the silence, and throws the wrapper in Frank's floor board just to spite the guy. Bright blue eyes shift to the thin frame covered in a loose cropped tee. Wiping his mouth on his ratty sleeve as their eyes meet. The way Peter is looking at him fills him with dread. Pity, shock or something along those lines. 

Wade moves to him once again, softly running the tips of his fingers down the bandage on the slender neck. His own recent injury aches, the one Frank shoved his thumb into. Surely the stitches he did himself held. Their eyes lock. “Surviving having your throat cut makes you a bad bitch.” 

Peter smiles, hooded eyes, baring just enough teeth, “As though I wasn't before.” 

There’s the sass Wade adored, the small smile it brings is genuine. “Why though? Why didn't you just kill me? This could have all been over.”

“I didn't want to see you die. I didn't want your blood on my hands. I didn't want Matty disappointed in me.” Peter licks his thumb and cleans up the side of Wade’s mouth. He sighs softly and rests his fingers on Wade’s jaw. “He never told you, did he? About us?” 

A cold smile shifts Wade’s features as Peter traces the man’s lips with his thumb. The mask he cherishes back in place, expecting Wade’s to be in place soon. “I should tell you sometime. It's all very romantic.”

A low sound, much like a growl, rumbles in Wade’s throat. It's brief and not very subtle. He wants to rip the smugness off Peter’s beautiful face. Something more sadistic flashes across Wade’s face as he pushes Peter into the door, leaning into his ear to whisper in a hot breath. 

“I don't know what you're trying to achieve by telling me all this, but I can tell you this-” His tongue runs up the outer shell of Peter’s ear, making the younger of the two bite down on his lower lip to stifle his gasp. “-you're making me want to break you with my own hands like I promised.” 

A warm calloused hand slips under the cropped tee, touching at the soft skin over Peter’s ribcage. Chapped lips kissing down his neck to the flesh just beside the freshly applied bandage.

Five minutes till time. Peter squirms under Wade’s sudden interest, feels him toy with the piercings in both nipples. A little moan escapes him. 

_ Why is he doing this? Why is he bothering to turn us both on now when it’s the least opportune time? _

The car door opens behind Peter, and Wade lets him fall out. His cheek scraps against the gravel as Wade steps over him and heads toward the complex. 

Shock. Anger. Peter screams after him, “You stupid cunt!”

A shit eating grin remains plastered to Wade’s face, ignoring the shouts behind him completely, and just continuing his walk towards ‘best buddy Bob's’ -BBB - apartment. He has every intention to murder his now ex friend when he sees him. Unfortunately, that's why Frank and Matt went ahead of him. A well thought out plan to prevent Wade from being an asshole and an idiot. 

After the car incident, Peter keeps a safe distance from Wade. Grumbling to himself about the mobster being a prick and hopping over chunks of missing sidewalk. This part of town was more run down and deserted. Perfect for someone needing privacy. Hell. Even the sewer grates were missing, just waiting for a body to drop down them.

Once they finally get to the apartment, the door is hanging wide open. Wade bends down and pulls out his handgun from his boot. He doesn’t look at Peter as he moves in ahead of him, just expecting the other to follow him and stay close.

Quiet voices are coming from a backroom and with every step towards them Wade’s heart pounds harder. The thought of Weasel being dead pinging around his skull. Everything is so slow, building up the moment of truth. The moment where he sees blood and death. With his breath held and chest tight, Wade steps through the door. 

Frank looks up from Jack’s battered body motionless on the floor. He couldn't have prepared himself. Wade’s quick to kneel down beside Frank who resumes talking to Jack quietly and holding his wrist to keep a pulse read. 

He looks up at Wade with icy features. "We must have just missed him. It looks like he's been laying like this for a while" 

Wade tilts his head down to the carpet after setting his gun beside Frank. He lies down on the floor beside Jack, looking his wounds over with an unmoving mask.

_ ‘Nah Deadpool I don't wanna be in your gang. You're a salty old fart who just wants to fuck and be fucked.'  _

He presses a kiss to his friend’s head and pets his bruised cheek. Jack has always been Wade’s partner, the only person to not toss him out because he’s insane. He didn't want to be involved with this mob business, but because Wade asked him to help, he did. Look at where that got him. Clinging to life while he dances with death. 

Wade looks up at Frank while moving back some of Jack's insanely messy blonde hair out of his face. The hacker’s glasses are missing, and he looks like he's been punched and kicked repeatedly. Jack would never give away information though, he would stand by Wade’s side until death. 

“We can't call an ambulance.” 

Frank nods, "I'm trusting you, Wade. I'll call one of my guys to come get us. Don't run off after you get him to the hospital." 

Wade lets out a huff and sits up. “Fuck you Castle. I'm not a useless piece of shit. Stop looking at me like I am. All of you. And you, Matt. Stop  _ thinking _ it. I can hear it.”

He stands, scooping his frail and battered hermit friend up. After taking Frank’s keys, Wade’s leaving without another glance to anyone in the room that reeks of piss, sweat, blood, and garbage.  

 

-

 

Two days earlier Wade was telling anyone who would come close to him that he wasn’t stepping foot in a hospital. Yet, here he was. A mess of nerves, alone in a waiting room with nothing to cling to as his friend was carted off to surgery. 

One hour into just sitting on his butt and he’s starting to panic. His fingers and legs won't stay still. The room is dim and the tv is restricted to the news. Wade slowly lets his head drop back onto the headrest of the chair to stare at the ceiling. It’s moments like these that he loses himself to the burned memory of his mother's death. The drops of the blood syncing with the ticking of the clock on the wall. The dripping becoming endless, stuck on a loop. 

_ Tick, Tick. _

_ Drip, Drip. _

Much like that day, shock played a major factor in his association. It changed his entire perspective on life, igniting his need to give everyone else that same intimate moment he shared with his mother.

_ Tick, Tick _

_ Drip, drip. _

Peter offered to stay with Wade while Frank and Matt headed to the ICU to look for answers. Nearly two and a half hours after discovering Weasel, Peter finds Wade looking so dead eyed in the waiting room. He shutters at the look. He’s seen that look, of someone stuck in a memory. He’s seen it in the mirror. But there was no Matt to come save Wade, Peter knows that. It was so easy to tell that Wade fought his own way through surviving. No one else to rely on. 

_ Tick, Tick _

_ Drip, Drip. _

He’s gentle and cautious when he puts his hand over Wade’s, even though he knows the zoned out man can't feel it. When he doesn’t react Peter lays his head on Wade’s shoulder. 

_ We're sick with the same disease in different ways. _

_ Tick, tick, tick, tick-  _

Wade closes his eyes when the blood dropping and ticking fade into soft breathes. It's not a usual part of this memory. He inhales the stale smell of coffee and cleaning products. His eyes open to see the waiting room is still empty, but there's warmth along his right side. Looking down, he sees fluffy brown hair resting against him and soft hands touching his own.

It’s probably forced again, but Wade enjoys it all the same. Lacing his fingers with Peter’s and resting his cheek against the top of the other’s head. It's warm, sweet, simple, maternal. All things Wade works so hard to understand for his mother’s sake, but doubts he ever truly will. 

The clock tells him it's been almost four hours. “Is he out?”

Peter snuggles against him tighter. “Are you sure you want to see him, Wade? He's in bad shape. Would you be ready to see him?”

A silent yes in the form of Wade’s thumb rolling over Peter’s knuckles. The younger of the two nods and rises when Wade does. He’s determined to stand by him until the man lets go.  

The nurse who leads them to his room is kind faced. Whether it does anything for Wade is left to Peter’s imagination. The man is all game face and tight nods. She smiles politely after easing back the curtain for them to walk through, revealing Weasel hooked up to a million wires and tubes. He's groggy, but he's alive and stable. That seems to be enough for Wade.

"Wade you piece of fuck..." It’s hard for him to get the words out, but like Wade, nothing stops Jack Hammer. With his first two ribs smashed and the rest cracked, breathing is difficult. 

The mobster and dancer haven't let go of each other’s hands. Still side by side. Silent. Unsure.

"God. Stop looking at me like Special Forces. I’m alive ain't I?"

Honestly, Wade doesn't know how long he was holding his breath. He finally shifts forward, releasing Peter’s hand, and stepping to the side of Jack’s bed. Running his fingers through the hermit’s greasy blonde hair. “I'm the only constant piece of fuck you have, Weas.”

He wants to do more than smile at Wade’s horrible jokes, but can't. As much as he acts like he hates it, his smile doesn’t fade when Wade leans down and kisses his forehead. His eyes flick up to glance at his friend through the haze of sedation. Someone must have found his glasses, he has them on and can actually see. 

With serious eyes and a soft coo, Wade decides to continue, “Do you want daddy to snuggle up here with you all night? Or do you want to be alone like a big boy?”

"You're sick, Wade" 

Wade flashes all of his teeth, deciding all is well before he turns to look at the three other men. “I need to regroup as soon as possible. Get a head count. Figure out what exactly we all know. I also have medical supplies at my office to fix my  _ stitches.”  _

A fierce glare is aimed at Frank, who just stares back. Matt listens to everyone, picking up on the tension. He clears his throat and nudges Frank.

With a heavy sigh, and shift in his demeanor Frank grunts, "Fine. Let's go. I'll drive though.”

Jack closes his eyes and seems to actually relax when they all decide it’s time to leave. “Thank fuck. Go.” 

Peter nods towards the man in bed and steps out after Matt. Frank follows the others after a quick pat to Weasel’s shoulder.

“Goodnight, buttercup.” Wade says in a sticky sweet voice and moves away from his friend’s bedside only to be grabbed by his shirt sleeve and pulled down. His nose pressed firmly to Jack’s while the man glares up at him.

 

"As soon as I’m out of this hospital bed, I’m beating you with my oxygen tank." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Goodness gracious. We got this war continuation to you as quickly as we could. Thank you so much for sticking with us on this chaotic journey! You're all awesome!
> 
> xo DeathNun


End file.
